Hell Hath No fury
by birdofflame587
Summary: Hell Hath No Fury Like A Woman Spurned. Or like a woman who’s been newly turned for that matter. When Dean rejects the advances of an oversexed girl in a bar, it has consequences he could not have possibly forseen, both for himself and those around him. N
1. Chapter 1

_Hell Hath No Fury Like A Woman Spurned. Or like a woman who's been newly turned for that matter. When Dean rejects the advances of an oversexed girl in a bar, it has consequences he could not have possibly forseen, both for himself and those around him. Not only will his outlook on feminine life be forever altered, but the fates of others become tied to his own. Can Dean and Sam reverse the "curse", or will they have to adapt and move on with their new lives?_

* * *

**Hell Hath No Fury**

**Chapter One**

Deanne dropped down unto the cold stairs with a heavy sigh, straightening her hair and fumbling in her purse for a cigarette. At twenty-seven and stuck in a dead end job, it was safe to say that life had not been kind to Deanne, nor did it turn out as she had expected. As a child, she somehow had the feeling that her life would be dynamic and full of adventure. And for a time, it _was_. It was such a pity that it didn't last.

"Deanne! Girl, get your behind in the kitchen. I need help with the dishes. Me and Sam weren't the only ones who ate on 'em," came the piercing, Southern-accented shout of Missouri.

Twisting her face bitterly, Deanne slowly got up and walked towards the front door, pausing only to remark to herself, "God, I wish I was a man again."

* * *

**Five Months Earlier…**

"Gimme a beer. Best draft ya got," Dean tiredly ordered the bartender. It had been a rough hunt. And in the end - completely fruitless. Silently cursing Sam, Dean made a mental promise to himself to not trust his little brother's _instincts_ so unwaveringly again.

They had been searching the town for vampires to slay for two weeks non-stop, just because Sam had read that the town's major blood bank was reporting mysterious disappearances in its blood supply. It all turned out to be nothing more than a corrupt medical board selling off rare blood type donations to the highest bidders.

Now, after all that intensive effort - staking out the blood bank at night, whilst searching around for the supposed vampire's hiding place by day - Dean was dead-assed beat. But before he took to hibernation, he needed a beer. It had been two weeks since he'd last had one - Sam had forbidden the imbibing of alcoholic beverages on hunts. Something about them ruining decision making, concentration and response time. All Dean's desperate excuses(that beer was much-needed courage in liquid form) were to no avail.

"Here ya go, man." The bartender extended his hand. "You sure look like you could use it."

Dean nodded in acknowledgment and accepted the beer with the expression of a starving man. Little did he suspect that someone just across the room was regarding him in a similar, _hungry_ manner.

* * *

Five beers later, Dean decided that it was time to go back to the cheap - no, not cheap..._affordable_, he reminded himself. It was time to go back to the affordable motel room that he currently called "home". It wasn't often that he left Sam alone. It was high time he got back. Getting off the bar stool, Dean made to turn towards the door. The sensation of someone's hands grabbing his left arm, and giving his well-muscled biceps a squeeze in the process, caught him off guard.

"Buy me a drink?" came the deceptively sweet voice of the young woman.

Normally, Dean offered to buy a girl a drink to get the opportunity to hit on her. This chick was forward and asking for it. Dean had gotten used to the bolder women falling all over him in sleazy bars like this one. And truth be told, if it were any other time, he'd have taken her up on the poorly disguised, seductive offer. But two weeks of interrupted sleep had his tortured brain screaming one thing - and it wasn't sex.

Even though she was a smoking hot blonde with an ample bust, well-rounded posterior and nice, full pouty lips that seemed only too eager to...Dean broke off his sex-starved-induced gawking.

"Caught me at a bad time, babe," Dean tried to excuse himself. "But hey - "

Dean reached into his jacket for a pen and a scrap of paper (he was in the habit of writing down clues since he had poor memory) with which to write his cell phone number down for the hot chick.

"- gimme a call in the morning and we can work something out."

He gave her his winning smile as he handed over the slip of paper. He'd just have to figure out a way to get Sam out of the motel room. Or he could just throw him out. Sam letting him have the room to himself for an hour was the least he could do after dragging them out here on this worthless excuse for a hunt.

"Aww, but I gotta work tomorrow," the girl pouted. "Can't we have a little fun tonight? You look like you could use a little cheering up. You've got the down in the dumps look about you."

My, but she did seem a little...brazen. They hadn't so much as gotten around to exchanging names yet. While he liked the way women viewed him as a sex object, Dean still had _some_ values. Blondie didn't seem to have any. Dean glanced at his watch.

"I really, really want to - would like to. But uh..." Dean trailed off.

The blonde looked at him curiously. Then, with a look of wicked realization she said, "Worried about the girlfriend finding out, huh? Don't worry, I'm not looking for a relationship. Just a good hard fuck."

Dean's eyebrows shot up. This bitch was dirrrty! Dean's restrained cock lurched in his pants at the sound of her crudity. And again, he mentally cursed Sam for his tiredness. It didn't occur to him that if he wasn't in the bar cooling down from the stress of Sam's pseudo-hunt, he'd never have met Blondie in the first place. Most of the blood had been diverted from his brain to his penis.

"Gimme a call first thing in the morning," Dean eagerly repeated and managed to make his way outside the door. But no sooner had he done so than he found himself accosted once more in the deserted alleyway.

"It has to be now. I need it NOW," she said wantonly, whilst rubbing herself against his crotch in a disturbingly obscene manner.

Dean would never admit it, but he seriously doubted his ability to maintain an erection in his current state.

"I am really, really tired," he explained.

"No problem. I'll do all the work," was the confident and slutty response to Dean's paltry excuse.

Dean was always cranky when he was sleepy, a trait all of the Winchester men had. And as tempting as this hot little number was, he was starting to get irritated. Just a little.

"Look, it's either tomorrow or nothing at all," replied Dean as he put his foot down.

"It'll only take a few minutes. Here lemme help you outta that," Blondie crooned, whilst deftly unzipping Dean's jeans. She was acting as if she had not heard Dean say no.

Dean decided that he'd had enough. In fucking (he never called it lovemaking), Dean liked to be the aggressive one. But this chick seemed to want the role on a permanent basis.

"Hey hey, none of that," Dean irritatingly mumbled while shaking her hands off his crotch.

And it was here that things took a turn for the worse. Blondie's sexy pout became an angry scowl, the scowl of a woman who felt spurned. The sudden transition was shocking and not very pretty to behold. Dean grimaced, not knowing a scowling woman could look so ugly, especially as she was so pretty when she smiled. For a few seconds, he thought she looked prematurely aged in the midst of that glower, but Dean passed it off as sleep deprivation and alcohol on an empty stomach working havoc with his senses.

"Fine, then. I don't need a sexually confused prick like you anyway!" Blondie screamed loudly.

That outburst was sufficient to extinguish whatever few smoldering embers of desire Dean had held on to for her. _Sexually confused_! Sam was the sexually confused Winchester - gay today, bi tomorrow. Dean knew what he wanted. And right about then, he knew it wasn't her, so he pushed her off a tad bit roughly and made to go about his way.

Blondie apparently was not through with him. "I see your type all the damned time. You're probably a repressed faggot anyway!" the pissed-off girl spat. Rejection rears its ugly head once more. Dean didn't understand her logic at all. He'd rejected quite a few girls over the years, due to the dangers of his _job_, and never yet had any made such an outrageous accusation. Perhaps Blondie was too much of a narcissist to see her faults and looked for any half-assed excuse to pass off her rejection, or held a secret hatred for gay guys and lashed out at any man her twisted head suspected. And apparently in her book, a man rejecting her sexual advances was reason enough for suspicion.

"Did you just call me a faggot?" Dean asked as he turned around to face the young woman who his mind now referred to as The Bitch.

Dean may not have understood why Sam preferred guys, but he was a very far cry from homophobic. Half the bullies he had to help Sam deal with were of the homophobic kind (though he never thought back then that their _accusations_ concerning Sam might be true). Dean had never called anyone a fag and took offense when someone called his brother that. Never in his wildest imaginings did he think anyone - least of all a girl - would call _him_ one.

She didn't say yes or no to Dean's question but merely replied, "Just another one living in denial."

"So you think I'm a fa - uh gay? Bitch, don't be bitter cuz you want me and can't have me. You ain't all that hot anyway. I should go in there, get any woman I want, then fuck her senseless right before your eyes. Then we'll see who's gay and who's bitter at not having her way," ranted Dean in an effort to reassert his heterosexuality.

Unfortunately, it just added fuel to the fire.

"Typical. Now you want to prove to me how much of a man you are. I don't know what I was thinking picking you. You're just a girl trapped in a man's body. Repressed and confused. Poor thing," The Bitch retorted.

Dean was about the give her the cussing out of a lifetime, but he was spared from sullying his tongue. The Bitch was backing off.

"I know when I'm not wanted. I _know_ what you want - and it ain't someone like me."

"Damned right," muttered Dean. Little did he suspect the turn their exchange would take next.

The Bitch continued, "It's to _be_ someone like me."

She obviously didn't have much for brains if she thought being gay meant, "girl trapped in a guy's body", Dean thought. That was enough. He wouldn't hit a female unless she were possessed or of the non-human variety or posed a genuine _physical_ threat. In situations like this, he had but one defense, and it lay in the adept usage of invective and obscenity, two skills that Dean had perfected over his lifetime.

"You fucked-up cu - " Dean was cut off then by The Bitch, who didn't even have the decency to let a man finish talking. Although in all fairness - neither did most other bitches Dean had ever had the displeasure of interacting with.

"All right. I'm going," The Bitch conceded and went about her way. She stopped once and made a funny pass in the air with her left hand. Dean assumed that she was flipping him the finger. Finally, she turned the corner and disappeared into the night. Dean made his way to the Impala wondering, _damn Sammy, did a bitch like that turn you gay?_...

* * *

Dean had made it back to their motel with a little difficulty. He'd only had five beers. Or maybe six. Definitely not more. He could drink with the best of them. So why was it that he seemed to have trouble navigating his way through the well-lit streets, streets that were very liberally provided with guiding signs?

Dean never had trouble finding his way about before. Especially when there were street signs. Sam was the one who always had to use a map. Or worse - stop to ask directions like a girl. In the end though, Dean managed to find his way back to their motel. It was in the process of parking his baby that the worst event of the night occurred.

There was first a thud, then an alarmingly metallic, scraping sound. With haste born of horror, Dean dashed out of the Impala and almost screamed when he saw the foot-long scratch on the side of the classic car. How on God's Earth had he missed seeing that sign to the left of the parking space? Dean had been far drunker before and yet still managed to successfully park in tighter spaces. Sam was never going to let him live it down. Dean always tried to deny Sam the privilege of driving the Impala, citing the possibility of such disasters as justification enough. Now if he denied Sam, he'd be called a hypocrite. Cursing audibly, Dean made his way back to their room.

Thankfully, he managed to enter the door easily. Inspecting the ground and windows, Dean was pleased to see that Sam had remembered to lay the protective salt lines. In addition, he had drawn the defensive sigils in chalk very neatly, far better than Dean himself usually did. His little brother was learning quickly. Another salvo of swearing - this time self-directed - ensued. Dean should have checked to see those were done properly before he left Sam alone (who was fast asleep), not when he came back in. The thirst for beer had been just too damned strong. But all the same, it shouldn't have gotten in the way of keeping Sam safe.

Speaking of the not-so-little devil, Dean peered closely in the dark to make sure that Sam was asleep. He so was not in the mood for an argument right about then concerning his _disappearance_. It was bound to happen if Sam saw him entering the room fully dressed in the dead of night. Dean preferred to sleep in the Impala - IF she would accommodate him for the night after what he did to her. The slow rise and fall of Sam's chest assuaged those fears though.

Dean was so tired that he simply decided to forgo the customary bath and teeth brushing and just be a slob. Instead, he merely changed his clothes. Lying on the bed as quietly as possible, Dean hoped that Sam had not woken up in the hour and a half that he was gone, or then he'd really be in for it in the morning. As it turned out, Sam had _not_ woken up while Dean was gone. Regardless, Dean was still in for something in the morning -the rudest awakening of his young life...

* * *

Dean woke up the next morning dazed and confused. The sun had not risen strongly yet and the motel room was still cloaked in a fair measure of darkness. Truth be told, he wasn't sure that he was completely up, but rather half in the land of the waking and half in the land of Nod. It was only when his blurry vision beheld Sam staring at him in an alarmed manner that he truly snapped himself out of his stupor. Dean opened his mouth to say something but was rudely interrupted before he could form even a single syllable.

"Who the hell are you? What have you done with Dean?" Sam demanded roughly. To Dean's surprise, Sam reached for the canister of salt that stood on the bedside. Once more, Dean opened his mouth, intending to ask what the hell was going on. Once more, he was cut short of uttering a word.

Sam went off on a rant. "You ain't human. I'm pretty sure of that. Dean's never been so desperate that he'd fuck a girl in the room with me sleeping on the next bed. Where did you take him?! Answer me now, you fuckin' bitch!"

Opening his mouth once more to say something, Dean found himself attacked by handfuls of thrown salt. He managed to close his eyes in time. But his mouth was assaulted by the dust-like particles. They worked their way down his throat and he began to cough. Sam must be going mad! Yeah, that was it. Six months of visions must have finally addled his brain. Maybe he was having one of them visions and got like, trapped in it or something, Dean theorized. He continued to cough, trying to clear his airway.

"Don't make me get the holy water, bitch!" Sam roared in a manner that truly scared Dean. Maybe if he could pull something off like that tone more often people wouldn't hassle him so much.

"W-wait! No, Sam don't," Dean spluttered. _Wait a second_, Dean thought, _since when do I sound like that? Almost like a..._. Sam had not listened to him. Dean chalked up his weird voice to the salt attack on his throat and vocal cords and made to get up.

"Don't you move, bitch!" Sam threatened. Then he began muttering, "Christo, christo, christo!"

_He must think I'm possessed! No wait - he keeps calling me BITCH. He must be seeing me as a possessed girl_, Dean thought.

"Fucking hell. It's not working," Sam mumbled, before reaching for the shotgun under the bed. Dean had by then arrived at his limit.

"Sam, don't you dare pick up that gun!" Dean shouted. Hearing the sound of his voice made him twist his face in confusion. No, no, no. It couldn't be. And yet there was no denying it. He sounded like a -

"Bitch! Tell me where he is or I'll blow your fucking brains out!" came Sam's scream. Honestly, Dean had never seen Sam act so…riled up before. Lose his temper, sure, but never had he seen Sam display such irate aggression. And all that due to finding a strange girl in their room? Dean could more easily see Sam asking for answers decently, before going all medieval.

_Maybe it has something to do with two weeks of sleeplessness._, Dean thought to himself. That compounded with the already chaotic sleep schedule Sam suffered through due to his clairvoyant dreams. Sam was always a cranky kid when sleepy. Dean knew that despite his tone, Sam was bluffing about blowing his brains out though. Sam surely wouldn't do such a thing because that would kill the victim of the possession. Sam would attempt an exorcism - but only after he got the information he needed from the _demoness_.

Dean, calling Sam's bluff, got up slowly and raised his arms in mock surrender. The very act of performing that motion brought on fresh confusion. Why was his tee shirt hanging so loosely from his frame? And what was...no...no... Dean felt the two protuberances on his chest and let out an ear-piercing scream. Sam was sufficiently shocked. So much so that he didn't say or do anything when Dean reached for the light switch, turned it on and went over to the mirror. Upon looking into the mirror, Dean screamed once more. This time Sam did act. He lunged and restrained Dean (who was too much in shock to offer much of a fight).

"I want some answers. And you're gonna give 'em to me! Where the hell is my brother?!" demanded Sam.

Stuttering through tears - it amazed him that he could cry so easily, even in this new form - Dean replied, "I'm under you! You asshole! Now get the fucking hell offa me before I make you eat that shotgun!"

* * *

Sam regarded the young woman before him dubiously. After half an hour of an attempted exorcism, he was beginning to suspect that he might not be dealing with something demonic in nature after all. But he was not yet fully convinced. It was best to take no chances, especially since Dean's safety was on the line.

Sam had liberally salted the bound woman sitting in the chair before him until she looked like a snowman. Or a snowgirl rather. It had absolutely no effect but to elicit a stream of swear words that flowed like dirty water down a gutter.

And speaking of water, the holy water had no effect either. Other than washing away the salt and provoking more violent swearing amidst claims of, "I'm Dean you dumb fuck! Lemme outta these ropes!"

Sam walked up to the struggling girl and pointed to her heaving breasts, "Last time I checked, Dean didn't have puppies this size."

"Yeah, about that," Dean tried to explain...

Sam then pointed to the long blonde hair that was held back in a pony tail. Dean wasn't quite sure how that hairstyle got arranged. Until he felt around to the back his head and discovered a scrunchie. It must have been magically conjured into existence while he slept no doubt. Pointing to Dean's remarkably flat crotch, Sam then made a cold, unfeeling remark. Something about Dean having too much on top, and too little on the bottom to possibly be his brother.

"Rub salt in the wound why dontcha," Dean muttered bitterly. Upon seeing Sam eying the salt canister, Dean was quick to add, "It was a figure of speech!"

The holy water didn't work. Neither had the consecrated salt. To Sam, that didn't rule out with one hundred percent certainty that the creature before him was not demonically corrupted. The woman could be possessed by an extremely powerful demon, he reasoned. There was but one thing left to do to rule out demonic corruption. Recite from The Ritual Romanum in Latin. No matter how powerful the possessor, they would at least flinch when hearing those sacred words.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio," Sam continued to chant whilst the seated woman looked on at him with hate in her eyes. She, however, did not writhe in pain as Sam thought she would. After a further fifteen minutes of chanting with no adverse effects - like sores appearing on the girl's skin, or violent, painful convulsions - Sam was ready to definitely accept that the girl was fully human.

"Are you convinced now?" Dean asked roughly.

"That you're human, yes," Sam conceded. "But that you're Dean, no."

"What if I tell you something that only Dean - shit - only **I** would know?" Dean offered. "Would that convince you?"

As cliché as that notion was, Sam had to admit that the idea was plausible. Before Sam could come up with any contradictory arguments (like it wouldn't be a plausible idea if his mind was being read telepathically), Dean began to rattle off childhood secrets like automatic weapon fire.

It all culminated with Dean saying, " - and you were afraid that I'd freak out if I knew you were gay. So you lied and said that you had a girlfriend named Jessica when it was dude named Jesse all along."

"Oh - my - God," Sam managed to get the words out one by one.

With a look reeking of _now he gets it_, Dean angrily gestured to be loosened from the restraining ropes. Sam approached and made to do so - then paused for a moment.

"What?" Dean asked.

Sam hesitated, then asked quietly, "Promise you won't hit me."

Rolling his eyes, Dean nodded and acquiesced. Sam couldn't see that his fingers were crossed though, since Dean's hands were held behind his back by the ropes. Minutes later, Sam was nursing a stinging slap to the back of his head whilst Dean was rubbing lotion onto his rope-burned wrists.

"What in the hell happened to you, Dean?" Sam questioned the person before him, who was still his older brother at heart.

With a scoff, Dean replied, "Isn't it obvious, Sam?"

"You know what I mean. I want the details," Sam demanded.

Dean ignored him for a moment and stood in front of the mirror, inspecting his new form for the first time in an in-depth manner. He had lost a little of his height, though thankfully not much. He now stood at five feet, nine inches. The feeling of the ponytail irritated him. Dean was always used to a short haircut. Clutching at the back of his hair, Dean found the culprit and tore it off.

The long blonde hair fell onto his shoulders and beyond. Immediately, Dean regretted having undone the ponytail. Moving his gaze downwards, Dean noticed that he had rather sizeable breasts. If it weren't for the weirdness of the entire situation, he might have even admired them. But his thoughts didn't linger there for long as he shifted his gaze back up to his face.

"Shit," was Dean's next comment. "Hey, Sammy?"

"Mhmm," murmured the younger Winchester, still nursing the back of his head.

"You always wanted to know what Mom looked like," Dean said. "Well, now you know. I look just like her."

Sam's jaw dropped for a few moments. Then he walked up to his newly-created _sister_, spun him around and had a good hard look. Their mother had died when Sam was six months old and so he couldn't remember what she had looked like. It was in a demonically induced fire that had consumed everything in their house - including all the photographs.

"Alright, enough. You can stop staring now," said Dean, pushing back his brother a few steps back.

"What in God's name did Mom see in Dad?" Sam muttered to himself. "She coulda done a lot better."

John Winchester didn't have a romantic bone in his body. While not really falling under the heading of **cruel**, he wasn't all that kind either. He didn't really have a sense of humor - good or otherwise. All Sam's memories of his father seemed to lay testament to John's seeming callousness. Chief amongst them were the ones concerning the fighting leading up to his departure to Stanford. From what Dean had told him, their mother was a virtual saint. Surely with her assets she could have scored a nicer guy than John Winchester?

Dean raised his eyebrows a little at that statement, but also admitted, "Don't be so rough on Dad. We got our courage and hard as nails shit from him. And we got the looks from mom. "

"Yeah," Sam giggled, "you more so than me."

Dean eyed his younger brother with a withering look before sitting on the bed.

"How did this happen, Dean? Did you make a wish at a wishing well or something? I told you that it wasn't just a legend and that they really do exist. And sometimes your wish gets misinterpreted and - " Sam was cut off from his rant prematurely.

"Why would I wish to be a woman, Sam?! Huh?" was Dean's angry reply.

"Maybe it was a subconscious wish," Sam carefully continued, "Maybe you're a repressed transsexua -"

"Don't you DARE finish that sentence," Dean warned, before adding, "I have a perfectly good idea how this happened to me."

Sam was of course all ears and eagerly urged his brother to explain himself. Dean couldn't seem to get more than ten words at most out of his mouth, before Sam would interrupt - usually in a preaching manner.

"Yeah, well, who told you to go out in the dead of night anyway? We both know what lurks out at night - and we're supposed to be smart enough not to venture out when we're not in good fighting form," Sam chided.

"You ain't ever been in anything closely resembling good fighting form," Dean snidely remarked. "And it don't stop you from tagging along."

That genuinely ruffled Sam's feathers. With wickedness in his eyes, he spat out, "God, you're such a bitch sometimes." That earned him another stinging blow to the head, this time to the side.

"You know, you could show me some of the sensitivity shit you're famous for," complained the elder Winchester, a little surprised and disappointed with the unsympathetic manner of his brother.

"I would," Sam stated, "but I know you'd have busted your gut laughing at me if I were in your position."

"Whatever, lemme finish," Dean said, amazed (and freaked out) at the whiny tone his new voice was capable of.

Several minutes later, Sam was roaring with laughter when he realized what had happened. Dean had to control himself. It wasn't that he didn't want to hurt Sam physically for laughing at his predicament, but all that slapping was beginning to hurt his hands. They were now a tad bit red. _Who knew that girls' hands were so goddamned delicate?_ Dean thought to himself. He wondered if he could even throw a decent punch. He'd have to test the theory sometime - maybe on Sam if he kept on laughing for much longer.

"My guess," Sam ventured, "is that you offended a bitchy witch."

"I suspected as much too," said Dean. "All of this just because I didn't have sex with her right then and there. If I'da known this was coming, I'd have fucked her right there in the alley."

"Yeah," Sam struggled in the midst of fresh giggles, "you didn't _use_ it, so you had to _lose_ it. First law of nature."

"Would you cut it out with the kidding around, Sam?! This is serious!" Dean said, exasperated. "Look at me! Just look at what I've become!"

"Laughing in the face of grave issues was never a problem for you. Besides, it coulda been worse," Sam offered in consolation.

_Finally some sympathy and understanding_, Dean thought, not liking Sam's earlier, uncharacteristically heartless, comments and jokes.

"What? You mean she coulda killed me?" Dean shuddered lightly at the thought.

"Well, I was actually thinking that she could have turned you into a frog instead," said Sam, with a smirk. "And since you wouldn't transform into a rich prince for her trouble, no maiden would want to kiss you. You'd be stuck in that form forever!"

"Just get the hell outta here, Sam. Get out!" Dean instinctively grabbed a pillow and began pummeling Sam with it. Then he realized what he was doing. "Oh God, I really AM acting like a bitch," he sulked.

"Not to worry, Dean," Sam said as his face and voice tone took on a serious character "We'll get you through this. We came here to hunt. It looks like we've finally got ourselves some prey."

"Yeah," Dean replied, pulling himself together, "let's get something to eat and we can start hunting that bitch down."

"And something for you to wear too," Sam suggested. "You cannot go all over town wearing your old clothes. I'll have see if I can find some hunter friendly threads for you before we start. And quick too. This spell could be time sensitive."

"True," Dean said, noting the looseness of his clothes.

"Not to worry, Dean. I've got the good taste of a gay man. I'll getcha something with style," said Sam amusedly.

Dean had to admit, "Sam, sometimes it pays to have a bicurious gay brother."

* * *

"I am NOT wearing that, Sam!" Dean vehemently objected, eying the offending _outfits_ with a disparaging eye.

"Dean, that was all I managed to get! I saw them hanging on a clothes line and they looked like a perfect fit. We need to start on this hunt as quickly as possible. We don't know what kind of timeframe we have," Sam tried to explain. "Why waste the time shopping around when the answer was staring me in the face?"

"A clothes line?" Dean looked at his brother incredulously. "You _stole_, Sam? YOU?"

"Hey," Sam replied, "like you once said, we're performing a public service. The least the public can do is assist us in our efforts from time to time. For their own benefit."

Dean looked at his brother in shock. Never in a million years had he thought he'd hear Sam say them like he believed them. Sam was always complaining about the credit card scams Dean perpetrated on a regular basis, bemoaning their need to steal. And now he seems to have accepted Dean's philosophy?

"What the hell - " Dean started.

"I was being practical. Get dressed," Sam simply stated.

"Hell no! Go out there and get me some pants," Dean countered.

"We are not wasting anymore time," said Sam, "or any money needlessly. Especially since when this is all over you won't ever need these clothes again."

"Money? How can you think about money at a time like this?" asked Dean. "Go out there, find a cheap store and get me some jeans. Search wherever the heck you have to."

Sam smirked. Most men just buy. It was women who shopped around.

"Dean, we're supposed to be _witch_ hunting. Not _bargain_ hunting. Just put on the damned clothes," said Sam with impatience coloring his words.

"Take this shit and fling it back onto the clothes line you grabbed it from, Sam," Dean insisted. "I told you that I wanted jeans. I'm emasculated enough as it is without having to wear skirts."

"Dean..." Sam weakly started.

"I mean," Dean continued his protest, "for fuck's sake! I had to SQUAT to have my morning piss! I have suffered enough."

Sam sat down and patiently attempted to clarify the situation to his sulking brother. He explained that they really didn't have the time to waste on mere clothes. What if the enchantment Dean was under had a limited window of opportunity for reversal? The time they spent heading out to a store and buying jeans could be better spent searching for an answer to his problem. He didn't want to be trapped in this form indefinitely, did he? It was better to wear girls' clothing for the short term than the run the risk of wearing them on a lifelong basis, right?

Besides, there was nothing wrong with the _outfits_ and they were perfectly suitable for everyday wear. No one would know any better. Also, wasting money on clothes that were only going to be used temporarily (Sam and Dean hoped) was not wise spending. There was the small matter of having enough money to stay in the motel, maintaining their supply of ammunition, gas for the Impala and - oh yeah - EAT.

"I'll go without food, but I am not wearing a skirt," said Dean with his usual stubbornness.

"Dean, we have enough problems without you becoming anorexic. You are NOT skipping meals just to pass for _acceptable_ in your head," was Sam's cool response.

"Find me a store. I don't care how time consuming, or expensive or cheapass it is. But buy me some decent pairs of jeans. At least then I can still be wearing some pants," said Dean, putting his foot down.

"You know, you remind me of a friend I had back in Stanford," Sam mused fondly in remembrance. "She neglected most everything just to afford fly clothes."

"Are you saying that I'm acting like a girl?" Dean asked. "Trying to hold onto the pants is acting like a girl?"

"Actually, in this case, I _wish_ you'd act more like one," Sam grumbled as he was snapped out of his trip down memory lane, "because then you might see sense and not be so goddamned stubborn. You're insisting on having your own way without care or concern for consequences. Dean, we simply cannot afford to squander _any_ time or money."

Dean's pouting continued. Sam finally decided that maybe some compromise was needed. If only to get Dean started on this hunt quickly.

"Look, wear it while we gather some intel," Sam offered, "and we'll see about grabbing you some jeans from a Laundromat or something."

"Well," Dean grudgingly admitted, "I'm no stranger to sacrifice. Now get out and lemme change."

Sam rolled his eyes but complied with his older brother's wishes.

* * *

Sam stood outside, casually leaning on the side of the Impala. The scratch on its once perfect paintjob did not escape his sharp eyes. Presently, Dean emerged from their room. He walked awkwardly owing to the semi-tightness of the knee-length skirt. Sam thanked Heaven that he managed to get the black one and not the pink, or then he'd never have gotten Dean to wear it, and they'd still be stuck in the motel room bickering. The top was a simple, white affair with short sleeves and a bare midriff. Sam just knew Dean wasn't happy about his abdomen showing.

But all in all, Dean looked okay enough to venture out, aside from the shoes that didn't match the rest of the get up, that is. Sam hoped that they weren't too loose for Dean's feet. He had seen them resting upon a dustbin, having been left for garbage pickup. They were perfectly good shoes. Sam wasn't sure why the owner felt they were dump worthy. As they seemed to be what Dean needed, Sam took them without feeling any of the guilt that he would have felt at stealing. Heels would have been perfect, but there was no way Sam could see himself either stealing or buying heels for Dean. Not due to any shame (well, MOSTLY not due to shame). It was just that Dean would not wear them. _Temporary_, Sam reminded himself, _heels not needed_. Not to mention buying them would mean squandering money unnecessarily.

"I feel ridiculous," Dean hissed as he approached Sam.

"Don't think like that. You look hot," Sam tried to say. "Okay that didn't come out right. I mean, not that I think you're hot - cuz you're my sister and -"

"Brother! I'm your brother!" Dean argued. "On the inside. It's what's on the inside that counts!"

"Yeah," Sam said, adding under his breath, "two ovaries, a uterus and a set of fallopian tubes."

"What did you say?" asked Dean.

"No matter how much you changed, you're still you," Sam quickly responded.

With a hard look, Dean shot back, "That's right. I can still beat the shit outta you. Don't you forget that. Now come on. Let's hit the town."

Dean got in the driver's seat, but to his surprise and annoyance, Sam didn't get in on the passenger's side. "Get the hell in, Sam," he complained. "We don't have any time to waste."

"You can't drive, Dean," Sam began, before being interrupted by Dean.

"What? So just because I'm a woman, I can't drive? Not all women are lousy drivers, Sam."

Sam resisted the urge to make a remark about Dean's parking of the Impala the night before.

"You're a woman now? I thought you were a man - on the _inside_?" Sam asked in mock confusion.

"Don't play with me, Sam," said Dean warningly. "You know what I meant."

"Really? Cuz I coulda sworn that you used to say the very opposite about female drivers. I wonder _what_ is responsible for this sudden reversal," Sam countered, taunting Dean about his hypocrisy. "Anyhow, the reason you can't drive is not sexist by any stretch."

Dean impatiently demanded to know _why_ then. Sam, excited at the prospect of driving again, was only too quick to respond. "You don't have a license. Your old, _fake_ license has your old photograph on it. If we get stopped by a cop, you won't be able to use it. And considering your usual bad driving, it's pretty much a risk I'm not willing to take."

"I don't care," said Dean. "You are not driving my baby."

"After what you did to her last night, I think she feels it's best to put a little distance between the two of you," Sam replied with a smirk, quickly pointing towards the scratch on the side of the car. "Oh come on, Dean. If you get stopped and you don't have ID and shit and you need a ticket and they can't find an address and do a background check or -"

"Fuck it! Fine, just shut up and get in," Dean sighed in defeat.

"So, where to?" asked Sam.

"It's a place called Joe's," Dean answered. "That's where I met the bitch last night."

"We can ask around for a girl matching her description," Sam said. "She must have been up to something, cornering men and insisting on sex right then and there. Maybe some sort of sex ritual? Maybe a time-dependent one...specific moon phase, astrological configuration needed?"

"Uh...or maybe she saw me, liked my hunky, virile appearance and thought I could give her the lay of a lifetime," Dean offered by way of explaining the girl's behavior.

With a dubious look, Sam replied, "I think I'm going to go with the former. Joe's it is."

* * *

"Well, it's about damned time," Sam stated. They had been driving around town for close to half an hour looking for Joe's place. It amazed Sam that, even though Dean had visited the local watering hole just the night before, he couldn't seem to find it again easily. _It must be something to do with the transformation_, Sam thought. Even before Dean's metamorphosis manifested physically, his navigation and driving skills had begun to deteriorate. Whatever spell he was under seemed to have required time to reach its transformative effect. Sam wondered if Dean was even now slipping further and further under its sway. What would happen to his brother over time if they couldn't reverse it? Spells usually have consequences and side-effects attached. Was this one any different? _It's certainly bizarre_, Sam thought.

"It sure took long enough to find this place," Dean grumbled. "Come on, let's see if we can track that bitch down."

Sam nodded, and the two siblings got out of the car and began walking towards the pub's front door.

"Maybe you should stick close to me, Dean," Sam suggested. "There'll be a lotta drunk men in there. And you're an attractive gi - uh - person."

Dean scoffed and casually replied that he could take care of himself.

"But I really think - " Sam started to say, before Dean cut him off.

"Look, I don't need you to start treating me like I'm all soft and delicate," said Dean.

Sam could have sworn that he detected a hint of feminism in Dean's voice, but he kept it to himself.

"Okay, okay. But we're going to have to act like you're a girl in there. And whenever we're in public too, for that matter," Sam advised.

"Yeah, yeah, I got ya," Dean grudgingly admitted.

"Part of which," Sam ventured, "includes you walking the walk, and talking the talk."

"Meaning?" Dean asked with raised eyebrows.

"Well, for one thing, I have never seen too many girls walking with your kind of swagger," Sam stated. "Or cussing so badly and so often."

Dean took note and agreed to act as 'ladylike' as his remaining masculine ego would allow him to. When Dean felt that he was ready, he and Sam entered the establishment. It wasn't even noon yet, but the place was fairly well-frequented. Dean could even make out a few faces from the night before. _Honestly_, he wondered, _do these people have nothing better to do than drink?_ Dean and Sam made their way to a couple of empty bar stools and took a seat.

"Well, take a look around, Dean," Sam whispered. "See anyone who resembles her?"

Dean scrutinized the place but couldn't say that he did. What he **did** notice were the downright obscene stares that many of the men in the place were regarding him with. It was making his stomach turn and skin crawl. Dean couldn't help but wonder if any women ever felt that way, back when he had the time on his hands to gawk at them in places like Joe's.

"What can I get ya, miss?" asked a bartender, intruding upon Sam and Dean's privacy. Not that Dean realized that the man was talking to him until Sam nudged him gently.

"Um...I'm not really here to drink," Dean began. "I'm looking for someone."

"Oh?" the bartender replied. "Maybe I can help you out. What's the description?"

Sam raised his eyebrows a little at that. Ordinarily, garnering information was a tad bit...troublesome. With a wickedly amusing thought, Sam supposed that Dean being a woman would come in useful for intel gathering on hunts. The way that bartender seemed to be only too willing to help the pretty blonde lady... Sam was willing to bet that men everywhere would be. And if they ever came across a potential informant who happened to be gay - Sam could handle him on his own. Hunting would be just a little easier.

"She's my...my sister," Dean explained to the bartender "She's had a falling out with my parents and she's just up and left. They're worried sick. I saw her last night coming into your place."

"Hmmm, well there _was_ a girl matching your description in here last night. All black - skirt up past the knees, sleeveless top, boots..." the bartender mused.

"Yes, yes. Exactly what she was wearing when I saw her," Dean said excitedly.

"She was a slutty one alright - er - I mean," the man behind the counter stuttered nervously at having called Dean's missing 'sister' a slut.

"Oh, no need to apologize," Dean said. "She was always the slutty sister. Know where she went?"

The man recounted that she had been throwing herself over a guy the night before, but that he didn't seem too interested, which was confusing as hell - a hot girl like that only too eager to get in his pants and he kept brushing her off.

"He musta been gay or something," suggested the bartender in passing. That comment irritated Dean and made Sam smile.

"Just because a guy wasn't interested in her doesn't mean he was gay," Dean said a tad bit heatedly. "Throwing yourself like a cheap hooker desperate for a dollar tends to turn off men with any scrap of dignity."

"Riiighhttt..." the man continued, "Anyhow she left through the back door for a few minutes and came back. Oooh - wait, she seemed to have gotten comfy with one of my regular customers. He's in here almost every night. Maybe you can ask him. I didn't see anything after that."

"Here," Dean scribbled his cell phone number and handed it over to the bartender. "Could you please give this to him and ask him to call me? If you see him tonight, that is?"

"Sure thing," the man replied.

Dean thanked the bartender for his help and motioned for Sam to head towards the door. He didn't want to stay in that place any longer with those men leering at him. What was worse, he needed to pee and very badly. If they started back for the motel now, they could make it in time. Dean wasn't sure how strong the female bladder was and didn't want to take any chances.

"All right, you don't have to push me!" Sam complained.

"I need to pee," Dean whispered. "Bad!"

Sam rolled his eyes before replying, "Dean, the bathroom's right over there."

"I want to go back to the motel. I can hold it," Dean insisted. "I really would rather keeping my shameful activities confined to our own bathroom."

_Honestly_, Sam thought, _all this melodrama just because Dean wants to take a leak_.

"What if you can't hold it? What if I hit a bump in the road and you end up pissing all over the Impala?" asked Sam, with a hint of amusement at the thought. That was enough to motivate Dean. He wasn't going to run the risk of offending his baby again so soon.

"And besides," Sam added, "just think, Dean. You always wanted to go inside the girls' bathroom at school. Now you get your chance."

"It was to see the girls, Sam," said Dean. "Damn shame there ain't a lotta girls in this place right now."

"Maybe they're all in the bathroom," Sam suggested before bursting into laughter. "Oh, go on. I'll be waiting in the car. And keep your eyes to yourself, or they might think you're a lesbian."

"At least that'll be one step closer to what I once was," Dean mumbled, before heading off to the bathroom.

* * *

Dean emerged from the woman's restroom in awe. The first thought that came to him was, _men are such animals_. He quickly modified it to _WE are such animals_ when he recognized the way in which he was thinking. With the call of nature answered, Dean walked towards the door, planning a visit to the local library to check news records to see if there had been a spate of missing persons, specifically of the young, male variety. The kind that seemed to entice The Bitch. Maybe if there were disappearances and there was a pattern to it, they could track the witch more easily. It was in the midst of making his mental list that Dean felt it.

"Alright. Who the fuck squeezed my ass?!" Dean demanded, as he spun around to glare at two semi-drunk men with wicked expressions on their faces.

"Whoo, she's got a dirty mouth on her," said one, in the midst of a leery grin.

"Just the way I like 'em," said the other lasciviously.

A couple of woman in the far corner of the bar looked in Dean's direction. Presently, one hollered out a little drunkenly, "Frank, what the heck has gotten into you?"

"You're just jealous no one would bother to lay a hand on _your_ saggy old ass, Hannah," said Frank. "Just look at that," Frank said pointing to Dean's aforementioned posterior, "I couldn't help myself."

Dean frowned, superbly angered. This was just too much. Not only his violation. But poor Hannah's as well. Time to test his theory and see if his new fists could throw a decent punch...

* * *

"What the hell took you so long?" Sam asked. "You didn't stop to drink did you?"

"And how was I supposed to drink, huh? You're the one keeping his hands tight on the money," Dean grumbled.

Sam replied, "Who knows what effects this curse will have as time progresses?". He jokingly added, "I am not taking the chance of you catching a feminine urge like shopping, or the desire for a makeover and then squandering all our money on it."

_Enough with the dumb jokes already. You can't do it like I can_, Dean thought. Sam didn't usually joke around a lot. Dean reasoned that his sense of humor had finally rubbed off on him over the months. Just his luck that Sam would use it to jeer at him.

"Yeah, like THAT'll ever happen," Dean scoffed, although the very idea scared him to no end.

They drove along in silence for a few more minutes. Then Sam had to put out in the open what was running through his mind. He was always plagued by the need to talk things out that were bothering him, a habit that sometimes irritated Dean, who was more of a 'silent sufferer' sort. As funny as this situation was at the beginning, Sam was of the opinion that it was serious enough to consider calling their father for some advice.

"What shit are you smoking, Sam? I ain't calling him for this," Dean said as he looked at his brother incredulously.

"He's your father," Sam countered, "and all he'll want to do is help you."

Sam thought about calling John to find out if he had ever had to deal with a curse of this type before, or if he knew anything of the nature of this kind of transmutation magic. And there was another very good reason...

"We have to accept the possibility that we won't be able to find that witch," Sam carefully stated.

"Of course we'll find her," said Dean, unwilling to give Sam's fears any serious thought. "We just won't give up trying 'til we do. That's all."

"Just in case, we need a plan B," Sam stated. "Dad might know of a white witch or sorcerer who could help you."

Dean, although admitting to himself that Sam's idea had merit, was adamant that his father not be informed of his current plight.

"We can check his journal for some contacts," Dean suggested.

"But the news will eventually filter back to Dad anyway. They're HIS contacts. I think it'll be better if he learned about it from us. And besides, we know he keeps his best info to himself. I doubt he wrote down all the good stuff in that journal," said Sam.

"Having his father find out his son underwent a sex change is not something most boys relish," Dean said, eyeing Sam icily. "There are some things you just need to keep to yourself." Mumbling under his breath, Dean added, "I thought you of all people would understand that."

Sam stopped the car and regarded Dean with a blank expression and an even tone. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Why dontcha call dad and tell him that you're gay while you're at it? You might as well while we're on the topic of gender," Dean stated a little coolly.

"Because it - it's not something that should be said over the phone. When we find him - I'll tell him," Sam defended. "Your case is completely different. This isn't your fault."

Dean realized what must have been going through Sam's head and apologetically replied, "It's not your fault you're gay. I didn't mean it that way. I meant - we both know we have a sorta crazy father, Sammy. It's not that he'd blame me, but I know that he'll be freaked. I don't want him to look at me like I'm a freak, okay? Even if I'm a freak against my will."

Sam had to admit, "Well, he IS old school. And yeah, I get that gender issues would probably confuse the hell outta him."

Dean replied, "Exactly. Let's just try it our way first. And IF we can't make any headway...then we'll call him."

Sam nodded and continued driving.

* * *

Dean sat on the bed, laying an cold compress on his right hand. It was still smarting a little from the punches he had to throw earlier in the day. Sam was busy surfing the internet, checking the online archives of the local newspapers. To Dean's disappointment, there was no mention of any mysterious disappearances. There weren't any local rumors either. Checks at the library didn't reveal any local legends that concerned witches or transgendering spells in any way.

"Hmm," Sam mused.

"What HMMM? Did you find something?" Dean asked excitedly, jumping to attention.

"It could be nothing but... Well, I've been checking the classified ads and -" Sam started explaining.

"What the hell are you doing checking the ads?" Dean exasperated.

"Would you let me expl - " Sam managed to get out before being interrupted.

"You and them personals again. Sam, sometimes I swear - " replied Dean, on the start of a rant.

"No, no, no. I was just browsing and came across the 'spiritual' section. There's a load of alleged psychics and shit, but only ONE _working_ witch in town. She claims to be able to solve all problems with a money back guarantee. Most times when I check other places' ads, they're loaded with witches and other occult practitioners."

"You think it might be her?" Dean questioned.

"Well, she was greedy for sex," Sam suggested. "Maybe she's greedy for money too. Might be worth checking out. This IS a small town, and seeing that ad just made a neat theory pop into my head."

"What?"

"Well, if she's been overusing her powers to make herself _comfortable_, she could have drained herself of magical energy," Sam suggested. "You see where I'm going with this?"

Dean had to admit that he didn't.

Sam sighed and decided to spell it out for his brother, the dumb blonde. "She might have been so desperate to have sex with you in order to recharge her magical energy. Sexual energy is one of the main forms of power that can be used for magical workings."

"Oh, right, right," Dean said as the idea started to make sense.

"You should know that, Dean. You've been hunting longer than I have," Sam stated. "I hope this curse isn't messing with your head as bad as it messed with your body. Like erasing memories you gathered in your life as a man, in the process of _re-creating_ you or something. But you get what I was saying?"

"Uh huh. I do."

Dean agreed that it was logical that someone with supernatural powers would use them to make their life as comfortable as possible. Maybe this witch was so good, she put all the other wannabes out of business. And claimed that sector of the metaphysical market for herself. In any case, if this witch turned out to not be the one they were looking for, she might be able to give them an idea about any practicing covens in the area, or even other solitary witches in town, The Bitch could turn out to be one of them.

"Worth a shot. Even if it ain't her, she might be able to help." Dean reached for his cell phone and promptly began to dial the number on the screen. After the fifth ring, a female voice answered. Dean promptly hung up, a look of apprehension on his face.

"What the hell?!" Sam started at the sudden shift in Dean's demeanor.

"T-that voice!" Dean stuttered. "It's her!"

"Are you _sure_?" Sam asked carefully. "'Cause sometimes people's voices sound different over the phone."

"Yes I'm sure, Sam! One hundred percent sure!" Dean said, reaching for the pair of black pants that he'd forced Sam to buy on the drive back from town. It was time to get busy.

"Then I guess we better go pay her a visit," Sam gravely stated, reaching for the car keys...

* * *

_To Be Continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

_So Dean and Sam pay a visit to the witch's house. Here's what went down at her place..._

* * *

**Chapter Two**

Dean's fury grew incrementally all the way along the drive to the witch's residence. Cursing as Sam drove, he threatened all forms of horrible vengeance upon the witch, whose name was Alison Greer according to the advertisement. Despite Sam's efforts to calm him down, Dean swore he would make her pay dearly for what she had done to him. While it _was_ true that some women emasculated men in some form or another at some point (a lot of times deservingly), this girl had taken it to an all new, obscenely low level. And for that she had to suffer the consequences.

"Would you calm down a little?" Sam asked. "She might not be _evil_ per se. Just a little wicked. It's not like she tried to kill you or turn you into an animal or anything."

"This is just as bad," Dean pouted. Then grasping at his non-existent male genitals, he added, "And could very possibly be worse."

Sam scoffed at that statement.

"She might have been playing a joke on you," suggested Sam, "Granted, a very bad one. We don't even know what the duration of this curse is. What if it's not even permanent and will wear off? She could just be a little misguided."

Dean murmured to himself, "Any woman who could find it in her to do this to a man can't be anything less than hell spawn."

Sam sighed and cut the ignition. It was almost eight thirty. The siblings Winchester had parked their faithful Impala at a safe distance from the, rather swanky, house that served as Alison Greer's abode.

"Would you look at the size of that house?" Sam asked.

"House? What house? Check your eyes, Sam. I see a mansion. I guess that the old cottage in the woods deal just wasn't good enough for her. Materialistic bitch."

The house itself was not located on prime real estate. And there were no immediate neighbors nearby. Sam supposed that maybe the witch didn't want to be disturbed by prying eyes when performing her rituals. And the lack of distraction would come in useful for concentration.

"Oh please," Dean said crankily, "I bet she sacrifices virgins, and lives out here in seclusion so she can hide the bodies easier."

"Stop being so bitter," Sam chided. "We need to be sure."

"I can't help it," Dean replied. "It feels natural. Like second nature even."

"Hey, not all women are bitter."

"Maybe not the ones born into womanhood. But I'm a new breed of woman. And considering what I'm going through adjusting to this - don't judge me!" said Dean.

"Alright, sheesh! Born into womanhood... You make it sound like you've been enslaved or something."

Under cover of darkness, the brothers sneakily moved towards the house, shielded by the thick shrubbery bordering the walls that surrounded the residence. The grounds themselves were fairly well lit to the front. But the sides were dark enough to allow slinking around unnoticed. Especially since both Winchesters were in black. Dean scanned the grounds and didn't make out any noticeable security cameras or guards patrolling about the place.

"Maybe she doesn't need them," Dean suggested. "Maybe she watches over her grounds with a crystal ball or something?"

"Or - assuming she's actually evil - maybe she's overconfident and thinks she's above discovery. And then she's not expecting us to be _hunting_ her either. Or anyone else for that matter."

_Yes_, Dean thought, _The Bitch was supremely overconfident_. Maybe it wasn't just limited to her sexuality but extended to her sense of security as well. Dean hoped that they'd fare better dealing with her security than he did with her sexuality. Instinctively, he looked towards the direction where the Impala was parked.

"You think the car's safe?" he asked Sam.

"Glad to see that some things about you haven't changed," Sam scoffed. "I guess it's true. You ARE still a man inside. Still thinking 'bout the damn car at a time like this."

Even though the tone was a bit mocking, Dean was glad to hear it, ranking it as something of a compliment.

"Now remember," Sam spoke up, "there's a good chance she won't be at home. She might be out prowling for men again."

Dean nodded. And in that case, they could search the house for clues as to what sort of a person and witch she was. If they could locate her ritual space they'd be able to tell if she was into the seriously dark stuff or not, based upon whatever paraphernalia they might find there. And hence, they'd know exactly how to deal with her based on the level of threat she posed.

"We can check for photographs too," Sam suggested. "Just to be sure that she's the one. You could have mistaken the voice."

"I didn't!" protested Dean. "And I don't know if photos will prove anything."

"Why's that?"

"Because," Dean answered thoughtfully, "she could be using a magical disguise to seduce men. When we were in the alley, I thought I saw her with the face of an old bat for a second. I just assumed I was really sleepy and drunk. But I ain't so sure now."

Sam commended Dean for his recall and quick thinking. They were two qualities he seldom found plentiful in blondes. Especially ones who were as blonde as Dean was. But he still thought that they should have a look at the photographs anyway. Even IF she was currently an old crone in her true form, she might be masquerading as her younger self. And that could have been the form of the girl that tried to get into Dean's pants. In such a case, they'd be able to tell if she was indeed the culprit. Dean admitted that the idea made sense. With that, both brothers turned their gazes once more towards the house.

"Well, now's as good a time as any," Sam remarked and motioned towards the wall. Time to climb...

* * *

Alison Greer chuckled in amusement as she beheld the Winchester siblings scrambling over her walls. They might have thought that they were being stealthy, with the all black attire and catlike motions. But she was well aware of their intended intrusion into her lair. As an adept witch, skilled in the arts of magic, she had no need for hidden security cameras and guards to make safe her estate. Her scrying crystal allowed her witch's sight to extend itself into the surrounding countryside. And right now, she was making good use of its surveillance properties.

Earlier that day she had received a telephone call. At first she was inclined to believe it was an anonymous caller who had made a mistake dialing her business number. Or perhaps someone who was calling about an occult job they wished her to work on and chickened out at the last moment. There were people like that. They usually were so desperate for a solution to their problems that they resorted to alleged practitioners of the occult arts - then chickened out due to fear of perceived Evil. Or being conned. Or perhaps both. Alison wouldn't have been bothered too much if that were Dean's case. Business was good. Her ancestral powers of witchcraft had served her very well and made for lucrative living. She had a surplus of clients.

As it turned out, it wasn't a case of a potential client calling and chickening out. She saw, on the Caller ID, a number that looked somewhat familiar. Not remembering its significance, but feeling quite certain it _was_ of some measure of importance nonetheless, Alison cast a memory recall charm on herself. It was then as clear as day. The number was the same one that sexually confused man from the bar had written for her on a scrap of paper. Smiling wickedly to herself, Alison realized that her little trick must have made him desperate enough to start searching for some supernatural help.

He must have recognized her voice, she surmised. With little doubt, she assumed that he had tracked her down and was sneaking into her house, either to confront her, or try to find some way to reverse the curse. Quite a brave one. She knew there had been something special about his aura when compared to the other men at Joe's. That was what had drew her to him like a moth to a flame. The intense masculine energy smoldering just beneath the surface. Like embers on the verge of bursting anew into flame once more.

She was in need of energy like that and would have loved to sample what he had to offer. Sadly, it was not meant to be. Sex was the best means to drain energy. Although she _had_ managed to steal some power from Dean in desperation, by draining his masculine essence, most of the energy had dissipated into the ether (and transformed him into a woman in the process). Energy lost in the transfer from him to her. She _did_ manage to obtain her energy infusion later on. But had to sexually drain ten men during the night before she was satisfied. They wouldn't be transgendering. She could quite possibly use them again. One must always make appropriate use of one's resources. In men, Alison Greer had found her personal renewable supply of energy.

_I have the power to defend myself_, Alison thought reassuringly, _let them come_...

* * *

"So far so good," Dean whispered as he forced open a window at the back of the house. "Ow, fuck!"

"Dammit, would you quiet down?!" Sam fiercely whispered. "We're trespassing and if we get caught the cops will get involved."

True. And then they'd be mistaken as burglars given the way they were dressed. It would eventually lead to a cascade of events which would end up in law enforcement being unable to source Dean's personal information and records. Just as Sam had warned him before, it would lead to a whole lot of messy complications. Dean murmured an apology, "Sorry, I - uh - chipped a nail."

Satisfied with a sarcastic glance, Sam entered through the window. It was a tight fit and Sam landed on the floor ungracefully, though thankfully he made the drop in silence. He was closely followed by Dean, whose new, more sinuous form allowed him to fit through with comparable ease.

"I move like a dancer," said Dean, with a glimmer of his past humor." _You_ need to cut back on them cheeseburgers." Sam was well aware that his brother was nervous, as he always tried to compensate with bad humor whenever he was. Trying so hard to display a false mask of bravado when Sam knew he was always just as tense as he was - if not _more_ at times.

The house was dimly lit. No one seemed to be at home.

"Yep, she looks like one of them old fashioned witches who favor seclusion," Sam said, whilst scanning the room for photographs. Having gotten no response, Sam turned around only to find Dean missing. He didn't have to wander long to find him. Dean was in the kitchen enjoying a slice of cheesecake that he had nabbed from the fridge.

"What the hell are you doing?" Sam asked pointedly. "We're supposed to be searching for -"

"I was looking to see if she had any weird stuff in her fridge. Potion bottles and shit. There was this witch dad and I had to hunt down one time. She used to keep her eye of newt and oil of boil in the icebox," Dean offered by way of explanation.

Sam surmised that it was logical. Oil of boil tended to spoil rather quickly. The convenience these lucky modern day witches had...

"Well, did you find anything magical?" Sam eagerly queried.

"Just the magical handiwork of Sara Lee," said Dean, smacking his lips. "Oh don't look at me like that."

"What if it wasn't safe?" Sam worriedly asked. "Witches sometimes have strange tastes."

"Please. It tasted good enough. You're just upset I didn't save you a piece."

"You ate the entire cake?!" Sam exclaimed.

"Serves the bitch right. She turned me into a cheesecake loving fiend. She deserves it," Dean said, opening the fridge once more and rummaging about.

"What are you doing now?"

"Just checking to see if she has any frosting. Or better yet, cookie dough," Dean explained, "I would just _love_ to see the look on her face when she finds it missing."

Dragging his older brother out of the kitchen, Sam led Dean back towards the vicinity of the living room.

"You could have at least let me pee in her apple juice!" the elder Winchester hissed. "For the last time, I'm telling you! It's HER. I didn't mistake the fucking voice."

Sam merely replied, "Let's check upstairs."

With that, they began ascending the flight of steps...

* * *

"See, I _told_ you it was her," Dean triumphantly stated as he bounced up and down on the Bitch's bed. There, on the dresser at the side of the bed, was a photograph of the young woman who had attempted to seduce Dean the night before. She must have photographs of her false form in her house to make her deception all the more convincing, the brothers believed.

Sam mumbled incoherently as he started pulling out loose hairs from the hairbrushes of Alison Greer. According to old folk sources, one way of weakening the power of witches was to burn their hair. The one place in the house that they had not searched was the basement. And Sam was more or less convinced that they'd find some of her witchery stuff there. Maybe even her ritual space. The house didn't seem to have an attic. Dean had commented that she was a wicked witch and wouldn't work her spells up so close to Heaven. She would prefer to perform her unholy acts in the basement so she could be as close to Hell as was possible.

Sam didn't know what to say to that bitter statement. But he no longer doubted that this practitioner of the arcane arts was evil, as opposed to mischievous and misguided. Her bedroom bore several items that had erased all skepticism from Sam's mind. Chief amongst them was an extremely large black mirror. Whilst a black mirror was a standard magical implement, the blatant demonic symbols carved into its wooden edge were reason for concern.

"Alright, I managed to gather up enough hair for a decent burning," Sam announced.

"Have you now?" Dean asked in superiority.

"Thank goodness she's not home," Sam sighed. "It takes a really skilled practitioner to work a black mirror. Most of the black mirrors I ever saw online were small things that fit on a desk. Size must _really_ count in her book. Would you look at the size of this thing?"

"Maybe the mirror double functions for magical spying, and for whatever kinky supernatural sex she has in her bedroom," Dean suggested. "I mean, it practically spans the entire length of wall opposite the bed."

"There's the Dean I know and pity," Sam said, rolling his eyes, but smiling crudely all the same. "Honestly, does everything have to have some sort of sexual connotation with you?"

"You have to admit, Sam, it makes sense."

"Well, that's one thing the two of you crazy kids have in common. You're both obsessed with sex in one form or another," Sam remarked. "She's hooked on the act, and you just can't help but ascribe sexual undertones to stuff."

Dean merely grunted whilst messing around in the opposite corner of the large room, busily looking for anything of use. A diary of her evil exploits, a spell book..._something_. Dean was so engrossed in searching that he missed Sam telling him that all the details would probably be in her Book Of Shadows, which would most likely be in her ritual space. Sam repeated it twice, then gave up trying to dissuade Dean's futile search. Either the witch Dean had hunted with their father kept the tools of her craft all over the place, or Dean simply didn't remember these things and chose to look about willy nilly...

Sam's words, unfortunately, weren't the only things Dean failed to pay attention to. For, whilst Dean was digging around in a chest of drawers, Sam was examining the black mirror carefully. It seemed to him that, for the briefest of moments, its dark surface seemed to shimmer, shift and ripple. Like a stone dropped into a still body of water. Upon moving closer for a peek, two hands shot out of the mirror, whose surface had by then transformed to a fluid-like substance...and drew Sam wordlessly into its depths. It all happened so quickly that he did not have time to exhale, far less to scream.

"Sam, I think we better go check the basement now," Dean commented, having found nothing worthy of mention.

Turning around to an empty room, Dean faced his share of annoyance for the night. He quickly corrected his irritation. After all, he had vanished in a similar manner (or so he thought) into the kitchen earlier. Sam must have been messing around in the study, Dean thought. It was just loaded with books. And they always seemed to draw his brother like a magnet. Sam didn't think that The Bitch would keep her spell books in the study. Maybe he had decided to go back and check them for a secret passage or the like. Just like in the movies where moving a particular book causes the bookshelf to swing open, revealing a dark passageway.

"Come on. Let's bust down the door to the basement already," Dean said as he entered the study, flicked on the light and scanned the room. The room that was empty of everything other than furniture, upholstery, various paintings and...lots and lots of books, the sight of which was an offense to Dean's eye ever since his school days.

"Dude, this is not funny," Dean said, childishly thinking that Sam was trying to pay him back for his own disappearance earlier. Even in the midst of a serious investigation.

Room by room, Dean scoured the upstairs floor of the house. Finally, in desperation, he repeated the process downstairs, cursing all the way.

"Sammy, this had better not be a joke," Dean angrily sighed, hands on hips. "Cuz this is not the time for joking arou -," He stopped mid-sentence when he realized how stupid that statement would sound coming from him, considering his own track record. Dean decided to wait in one place for a couple of minutes in the hope that Sam would run into him.

_Kind of like when you're lost_, Dean thought. It's best to stay in one place. He waited in the main hall for ten minutes. Then anger quickly started giving way to worry. Reaching for his cell phone, Dean dialed Sam's number. Upon hearing a wicked feminine cackle on the other end, Dean dropped the phone...

* * *

Sam sat on the throne-like arm chair, bound motionless by some unseen force. The high back seemed to immobilize his head, forcing him to look straight before him. The armrests did the same thing to his forearms, and both his wrists felt as if they were held firmly by invisible shackles. Sitting in front of him in an identical chair, but with no such discomfort, was Alison Greer. Sam couldn't help but think, _Dean musta been really tired to pass up fucking her on the spot_.

"You've been staring at me for half an hour now," the girl spoke up.

"My head is being forced to face forward. And I didn't think it would be wise to take my eyes off of you," Sam stated. Besides, she had been staring at him too. Eye to eye.

"I take it you like what you see?"

Immediately after being pulled into the black mirror, Sam was forced down into the devil of a chair that now held him in its constraints. The witch, Alison, had merely sat down in her chair and spent the entire half an hour looking at him. Well, aside from answering his cell phone when it rang, no doubt it was Dean calling, and laughing like the Wicked Witch of the West into it. The fact that the laugh sounded like that of an old crone seriously disturbed Sam. Despite her youthful appearance, Alison probably had the craftiness that came to a witch with age.

"Hardly," was Sam's frigid reply to her question.

"There's something odd about you," Alison remarked, ignoring Sam's icy tone. "Your aura confuses me. It's rather difficult to read and interpret."

"I tend to generate that perplexing effect a lot," Sam said, adding a tad bit wickedly, "especially with dumb blondes. Don't take it personally."

To his surprise, Alison merely started up another round of disconcerting laughter, before commenting, "I suppose your bro - er - I mean _sister_, has trouble understanding you all the time then."

Sam's eyes shot up. "How did you know he's my brother?!"

"From your thoughts. What? You think I've been staring into your eyes for the last half hour cuz of your looks?" Alison asked lightly. "Though you ARE a cute one. Love those green eyes."

Sam ignored the compliments from the hag and asked, "You were reading my thoughts?"

"Barely. Like I said. There's something..._special_ about you. I could hardly scratch the surface. I was amazed when the mirror reacted to you."

The mirror. Sam remembered its surface becoming misty, then watery. It seemed to draw him towards itself, and into _here_. At least Sam was pretty sure that they were not in some weird alternate dimension. After all, his cell phone _had_ rung when Dean called his number. The mirror must have served as a portal, leading him to the witch's ritual space.

"Dean will eventually figure it out," Sam said, trying to sound brave.

"Do you think she will?" Alison asked mockingly, "She IS a _dumb blonde_ after all." Clearly she was letting her anger show at Sam's quip earlier in the conversation.

"My guess, is that you work your magic somewhere on the grounds of your house," Sam stated, "And the only place we didn't check was the basement. So, I take it we're in the basement."

"You're a very smart boy, Sam," Alison said drawing closer. "Brains _and_ beauty. A rare and...powerful combination."

Uncomfortable with the closeness, Sam tried to squirm further into the chair and away from her. She may have looked pretty, but beneath that façade, he had no doubt that there lurked an old crone.

"You know, I didn't suspect that you two knew your stuff...until I saw you going through my hairbrushes."

Sam watched her twirl the strands of hair in her fingers for a moment. Hair that he had collected from her bedroom. She must have grabbed it from his jacket whilst he was being pulled through the mirror.

"We know a thing or two," Sam said as it was clear that Alison expected a reply.

"Hmmm, that explains the intensity I felt emanating from your brother. Well, from the man who was _once_ your brother," the witch mused to herself. "I suspect he's seen things that most men can only imagine."

"He'll be doing some _things_ to you when he gets here alright," replied Sam. With relish, he added, "Things you can only imagine."

"Oh enough about her," Alison said, dismissing Dean for the moment. "Let's talk about you."

"Huh?"

"How did you activate the mirror? Are you are a sorcerer? You boys ever dabbled with the supernatural?"

"Um, yeah. In a matter of speaking. Not much magic though. We usually just kick supernatural ass."

That seemed to cast a look of worry on Alison's face.

"Well, _I_ kick ass, mostly when provoked. Dean's motto is usually _just kill the fucker_. His words, not mine," added Sam, pressing on with the intention to shoot some scare into the witch. Which he seemed to have done. Certainly the self-assured demeanor she wore at the start of the exchange had vanished.

"Hunters," she said to herself.

"Awww, are you scared? We know what your game is, Alison. IF that's even your real name."

"Oh, really?" Alison asked dubiously, and in as haughty a manner as she could manage.

"It was easy to figure out actually. I AM _such_ a smart boy," Sam mocked her words and continued. "You're using magic to live it up. And to maintain your lifestyle and looks, you need a constant supply of mystical energy. Energy you steal when you have sex with men."

The Bitch looked satisfactorily stunned.

"Though one thing confuses me," Sam admitted.

"Oh? Didn't think a smart boy like you _could_ be confused."

"If you were in need of energy, why did you waste it transforming Dean? Just because he rejected you?" Sam queried. "I mean, transmutation spells need a lot of energy to pull off. And the bigger the object and the more drastic the change, the more power is needed."

"You forgot one other factor," Alison said smugly.

Sam stopped for a moment, deep in thought. Then the last factor hit him - level of permanence. Obviously it would take less energy to temporarily transform something than if you were to permanently alter it.

"How long before this spell wears off?" Sam asked.

"You're assuming that it DOES wear off."

"Considering that you were probably low on energy when you cast it...it most likely is a temporary thing."

"If you really believed that, Sam" Alison wickedly stated, "then you wouldn't have come breaking into my house searching for clues. And in any case, you have seriously misunderstood the nature of the magic at work."

Sam opened his mouth to say something more. But then stopped as he saw Alison reach for his phone that had started vibrating on the small table next to her chair. Dean must be calling again. Sam hoped that he had taken the time to think things through and come up with a plan. The worst thing would be for them to both end up in Alison Greer's power. Goodness knows what she would do to them. Especially now that she was all charged up again, she might even decide to curse Sam similarly. Just for spite's sake. Sam didn't relish the thought of sharing Dean's fate, even though it was better than the worst possible outcome...

* * *

"You hand over my brother, bitch!" Dean shouted over the phone.

"Take a good look in a mirror before you call someone a bitch, Dee Dee," was Alison's calm and amused reply.

Dean resisted the urge to let the swear words fly. It wouldn't be wise to risk genuinely angering the witch. He had Sammy's safety to think about. As always, there hung over him the dictum of their father - _take care of your brother_.

"What do you want?" Dean asked. "Let him go and maybe we can work something out."

There was an audible laugh on the other end. Then a scornful scoff.

"Dean, I have been a woman a lot longer than you have. I know when someone's lying to me. Like I'd hand him over and then have you backstab me. Besides, who's to say that Sammy isn't what I want now?"

"You hurt him and I'll -" Dean started on a threat.

"You'll what? Hunt me down and engage me in a catfight?"

"Your ass is MINE! You hearin' me?! MINE!" Dean ranted.

"Why would you want _my_ ass, Dee Dee? Didn't I endow you with a fine ass of your own?" The Bitch trailed off in devious laughter.

Upon hearing that statement, Dean's mind was accosted with the remembrance of the slap and squeeze his ass had been subjected to earlier. Those men had all seemed to think it was 'fine'. He lost it then and began rambling on in a near gibberish-like volley of cursing.

"Seems like I didn't make you lady-like enough," Alison commented. "Such filthy language. Why dontcha come on down here and let me finish the job right?"

That casual statement of Alison's lit up a light bulb over Dean's head. She said, why don't you come on _down_... His mind's eye immediately visualized the heavy door to the basement. Maybe that was where she kept her lair after all. Alison must have let that slip through in her insults. Dean decided to play along. He needed to find out if she suspected whether he had any clue of where base was. Where she was probably keeping Sammy.

"Where did you take him?" Dean asked in a mock defeated voice. He needed to feign ignorance of her lair's whereabouts.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Alison said in the midst of chuckles. "Give it up, Dee Dee. You'll never figure it out. Be nice and when I'm done you can have him back. Yes, I said HIM. And don't you dare think about clearing my fridge while you wait. I'm pissed enough as it is about the cake."

"Okay," Dean pretended to acquiesce, "just don't hurt him. Please."

"Don't worry. I won't be hurting him. As a matter of fact, I'm going to do just the opposite."

"Huh?"

"He's a smart boy. He won't resist me. Your little brother is something special, Dean. I'd just love to have a taste of what he has to offer. So much power..."

Dean's eyebrows raised. Didn't Sam say that she was draining energy from men via sex with them? What if Sam was all gay today? He had a habit of being bicurious a little now and then. But he always leaned a lot more towards guys even through that. What if he didn't so much as get aroused? What if it angered Alison so much that she thought he was another _girl in a guy's body_ and did the same thing to him? Before Dean could say anything to Alison's last statement, she hung up.

* * *

"Dammit! Does faggotry run in your family?!" Alison snapped viciously. She had spent the last fifteen minutes trying desperately to get Sam hard. Even her praiseworthy blowjob skills didn't seem to stir him in the least. The first thing that crossed her mind was that he was gay. _Had to be it_, she thought. She was, of course, right in Sam's case. But his lack of response also had a lot to do with the nervousness and fear he was feeling in his current situation. It tended to ruin his mood for sex. Just like extreme lethargy ruined Dean's.

"I dunno," Sam said. "Does sluttiness run in yours? Cuz you are _quite_ the cock whore."

Alison got off her knees and looked at him with the fire of determination blazing in her eyes.

"You've got a lot of power inside you," She stated. "The mirror sensed it and was forced to reveal its true nature to your sight."

Alison made it quite clear that she intended to claim that power for her own. She just needed time and she'd manage to get Sam hard enough to have her way with him. She knew of some powerful herbal aphrodisiac that would do the trick. They would just need preparation, that's all.

She thought to herself, _there's no way I'll drain him like I did to Dean_. She wanted the maximum benefit. Not just a sip with massive wastage as had happened with his brother. Having brought Dean again to mind, she decided to consult her scrying crystal. She needed to see what he was up to.

So she proceeded to stare into its clear depths. To her irritation, she did not get the usual quick results. After a further five minutes of attempting to scry, she gave it up as futile. She had a suspicion as to what the problem was. Sam. _He must have the Sight_, she thought to herself. The mirror reacted under his gaze. And now her own scrying crystal was refusing to obey her. Not to mention that she herself couldn't interpret his aura or read anything but the basics of his mind. She theorized that Sam must have had the ability to not only See, but Conceal as well. No doubt it must have been latent. Otherwise he would have used it to discover where she was without having to search the entire house. So it had to be an unconscious thing. Involuntary but powerful.

"So much power," Alison whispered to herself. She decided to write off Dean. The fool sounded as if he - SHE, Alison corrected herself, as if she had all but given up. What Alison couldn't know was that Sam and his brother had discussed the possibility of the basement being her lair. After all, the scrying crystal could only show images. It couldn't broadcast sound. Underestimating the brothers, she assumed that Sam had figured out the location only _after_ he'd wound up trapped.

"You are so wasting your time," Sam stated, as Alison made her way towards the altar...

* * *

Dean was well aware that he had to make his move quickly. But moreover, he had to act stealthily. For all he knew, the witch could have supernatural means with which to spy upon his actions. Though she would most likely be too busy trying to sex Sam to use them, Dean felt it best not to do anything to draw the evil witch's attention. Like making too much noise near the basement door for instance. There _was_ still the matter of getting inside the basement.

_I need something to pick the lock_, Dean thought to himself. It was a pity that Sam was the one carrying all their usual housebreaking tools. They were a bit too heavy for Dean and Sam had offered.

"Wish I had a damned hairpin," Dean mused. Then realization hit him and he slapped his head. They were in a _girls_ house. There was bound to be hairpins in the house. And where else better to look than in the bedroom? On the dresser or so? So Dean quickly and quietly made his way back upstairs.

Sure enough when he got there, he found them on the dresser. Grabbing a few of them, Dean walked past the bed, intending to head on back downstairs and pick the lock on the basement door. He didn't make it out of the room though, for as he walked past the bed, he chanced to see his reflection in the large black mirror spanning the wall on the opposite side.

"Holy shit," Dean softly swore, while slowly walking towards the black mirror. Reflected on its surface was an image of himself, his _untransformed_ self. Dean raised his arm, the image did the same. If he had bothered to examine the mirror, like Sam had, then he would have noticed it earlier. Dean quickly thought back to what he knew about black mirrors. They were used for scrying, and had the property of revealing the true nature of things. Unconsciously, Dean made to touch the mirror's surface, as if by touching the reflected image he could reclaim something of his former self.

He never **did** manage to touch the mirror's surface. As a matter of fact, he **touched** nothing at all. Dean's mouth opened wide as he saw that his fingers were effortlessly penetrating the black mirror. In an instant, he realized what must have happened to Sam. His brother had been deeply engrossed with that mirror. What if he had somehow fallen...or was _pulled_ through and ended up as Alison Greer's captive? Stepping closer to the mirror, Dean swallowed and crossed the threshold.

_Hold on, Sammy_...

* * *

"Here comes the airplane!" Alison coaxed, whilst trying to spoon feed Sam a bit of her brew. Sam was tempted to tell her to stick that spoon somewhere else (use your imagination) but was afraid that the moment he opened his mouth, she force the brew down his throat.

"It don't taste nasty or anything," Alison offered, "tastes like cherry soda."

Sam always hated cherry soda. He looked up to Alison. If he couldn't risk opening his mouth to tell her off, the least he could do was death glare her. In doing so however, his eyes were drawn towards the black mirror on the opposite side of the room. There was a _hand_ sticking out of it. But not just ANY hand. A hand bearing Dean's bracelet! Before Alison could notice his sudden interest in what was happening behind her, Sam looked away from the mirror and at her face.

"This is a rather potent brew," Alison explained, "it doesn't need to be ingested to work. I _can_ use a volatile form and have you inhale it. But that usually leaves a person nauseous and with a splitting headache...and could cause brain damage."

Sam's eyes widened in fear. If she put a bowl of that under his nose, he couldn't hold his breath forever. Sam had read that if someone were drowning, they would not be able to stop the body's reflexes from kicking in and would continue to gasp under the water, trying to get air in their lungs. And all they'd get would be even more water in there. The same thing would happen to him, except it would be an herbal aphrodisiac powerful enough to make men screw the first living thing on sight (or so Alison claimed).

Glimpsing more of Dean slipping through the mirror, Sam decided to risk having a spoonful of that down his throat and buy his brother some time.

"Wait, wait. Please don't," Sam begged. The fear was real. Alison seemed to be a bit mentally unstable. She may have been using a sweet tone, but that didn't fool Sam. Some of the worst psycho killers were rather _sweet_.

"Well? Are you going to drink?"

"Um..." Sam stalled. Dean's head and most of his body was now through the mirror. Why couldn't he just step through at once instead of inching forward? At least he was almost inside the room and still unnoticed.

"What is it, darling?" Alison earnestly asked.

Thinking of something to say in order to buy Dean more time, Sam came up with a farfetched excuse. Surprisingly, Alison accepted it.

"Well, it's just that you're making me feel so emasculated," Sam said.

"Huh?" Alison asked, with raised eyebrows.

"I mean," Sam quickly continued (Dean was fully in the room by then and was approaching the witch with murder in his eyes), "I mean, you have me all tied down. Treating me like a baby, spoon feeding me. As if I can't drink on my own. I'm a man - and um - I really would rather take it down with a swig."

"Oh..." Alison said in an understanding manner.

"And," Sam said again (Dean was within inches of Alison), "you made it cherry pop flavor. It makes me feel like a damn kid. So..._emasculated_."

"Aw honey, we certainly can't have THAT, now can we? I'll whip up a fresh batch - it packs a kick in its native form! A worthy drink for a macho man like you!"

She never did get to make that drink, as by then Dean had caught up to her. With one hand he held her throat, and with the other he proceeded to slap her relentlessly. Alison tried to fight back, but she was hopelessly outmatched. She seemed to be one of those mages who relied completely on their magic and were nigh helpless without it.

"W-haat?!" Alison managed to gasp out.

SLAP!

Sam hurriedly spoke up, "Dean, take it a little easy on her. She needs to be able to speak for our interrogation."

SLAP!

"Just a couple more, Sammy. I never knew that bitch-slapping somebody could be so fulfilling. Helluva good stress reliever."

SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!

Sam looked at his brother incredulously but agreed that Dean deserved a little revenge...

* * *

Once more, Alison was sitting on one of her throne-like chairs. But now the situation was reversed. With her concentration occupied by Dean, and no doubt the bitch-slappings, her hold on Sam had disintegrated and he was able to finally extricate himself from his chair.

Dean had gotten a length of rope from Sam's pack and tied her feet to the legs of the chair with it. Not taking any chances, Sam slapped a pair of cuffs on her wrists. Witches often channeled their powers through arcane gestures after all.

"Do those cuffs turn ya on, bitch?" Dean asked the supernatural sex predator evilly. "Cuz the sight of 'em on you is really doing something for me."

"Getting all moist and juicy are you?" was Alison's malicious reply. Dean got a scowl in response at no extra charge.

"You just keep taunting me. My hand is itchin' to be bitchin'," said Dean in a threatening manner.

"How the hell did you get in here?!" Alison snapped. "How did you activate the mirror?"

Dean looked confused. He thought that the mirror was like a door. That it could be open or closed. He merely had thought that Alison had left it open. And so he was able to come through.

"Did YOU activate the mirror," Alison asked turning her attention to Sam.

Sam responded, "Look, I didn't activate the damned mirror. I think you got bigger problems to worry about than that."

Alison ignored that statement and mused to herself, "I knew it. You must have innate mystical ability."

Dean looked at Sam oddly.

"How does she know that? Did you tell her about the visions?" the elder Winchester asked.

"No, Dean. She read - well, tried to read my mind."

"Tried to?" Dean asked, with a confused expression. It was not Sam who answered, but Alison.

"Yes, tried to. Like I said, there's something about your brother, something...special."

"And there's something about you too. Something...crazy." Dean continued, "Now tell me what you've done to me and how to reverse this spell of yours."

Alison, seemingly not paying heed to the gravity of her situation, merely began cackling like the bitch witches of old. A sound SLAP from Dean managed to snap her out of it though. She frowned and replied, "I can't."

All of the color temporarily drained from Dean's face. Then it came back very quickly - Dean became red with fury. Sam quickly grabbed his arm before he could get any closer to Alison.

"Look, I think you've seen that chivalry is dead in my brother's book," Sam started.

"You mean your _sister_," Alison replied.

"You fucki -" Dean swore.

"No, I mean my brother," said Sam, with conviction. "Now out with it."

"You better get used to having an older sister, Sammy." Alison considered a moment before adding, "And be careful too, don't get her mad. The bitch throws one hell of a slap."

"I can throw a lot more than that," Dean said, "eyeing a heavy chalice on the altar."

"If you don't start answering our questions, we're going to have to get physical," Sam warned. "And not in the way you would like either."  
Alison didn't know if Sam would hit her. But she had no doubt that Dean would. Finally, she decided to appreciate her circumstances and nodded. She was ready to talk. The first thing that Dean did was to repeat his opening question, how to undo what she had done.

"I - um - don't know," Alison hesitantly responded.

"Wrong answer," said Dean, before raising his hand once more. The hovering hand elicited a nervous gasp from Alison.

"I swear! I don't know how to reverse it or IF it can be reversed!"

Dean slowly lowered his hand. He was going through one of those rare moments in which he needed to sit down upon hearing a bit of news. It was such a smack in the face that he couldn't find it in him to say or do anything for a few moments - Alison's outpouring seemed rather believable. Sam, however, got irate.

"Well **I** don't believe you! You had better 'fess up now or I'll bitch slap the truth outta you myself," Sam warned.

Dean looked in mild surprise at Sam's sudden vehemence, so not like him. But then having to deal with something like this was totally new to Sam as well.

"And my hands aren't as soft as Dean's," Sam added.

Alison's eyes widened at the threat and she quickly responded, "It's true. I don't think it CAN be reversed because it wasn't caused by a **spell** per se."

Sam squinted. This was a new development. And it complicated matters significantly. Spells could be undone in the overwhelming majority of cases. This apparently wasn't one of those cases. He motioned for the restrained witch to get on with it.

"Well, you know that I trade sexual satisfaction for masculine energy," said Alison.

"Yes, we've established that you're a supernatural whore. Move it along," Sam urged.

"But sometimes despite my efforts, I just can't seem to get a guy in bed. And then, in desperation, I have to...drain energy in another way," the witch offered cryptically.

Alison went on the explain that the alternative was a wasteful method, as most of the guy's energy would bleed out into the environment, and she'd only get to taste a minute portion of it. But in desperate times, she had been forced to do it. Dean gasped.

"How many other have you turned?!" the aggrieved Winchester demanded.

"You and two others," she answered.

"What happened to them?" Dean asked.

"I don't know," Alison replied spitefully, "I never really kept in touch."

Sam, silent during the exchange between Dean and Alison now spoke up. Whining at their troubles was not going to solve them. They needed to accept and start working on a solution.

"Tell me how your _alternative_ procedure works," Sam asked with coldness in his voice and fire in his eyes. It subdued Alison once more.

"Well, I pierce the guy's aura and while his energy is escaping, I try to take some."

Sam seemed to think that made sense. Sex was facilitated energy transfer. The draining process took a while and worked itself up gradually until climax. It gave the absorber time to adjust the flow. Draining directly by piercing the aura would release everything at once - and the drainer would have a hell of time absorbing it.

"Yeah, exactly," Alison agreed.

"I don't get how it made me a woman though," said Dean, inserting himself once more into the conversation.

"I think it has something to do with your masculine essence being lost to the surroundings when I pierced your aura. Um, kinda like a wound in your aura," explained the witch.

Sam and Dean reasoned. It would explain why the transformation process took time and didn't happen all at once. Whilst Dean was sleeping, he must have been losing masculine energy all the while and slowly transformed over the night. Dean scowled in anger.

"So there's nothing that you can do to help me? No hocus pocus?" Dean asked.

Alison shook her head in the negative. Dean walked over the altar and picked up the witches athamae, the consecrated blade used to direct mystical energy. He walked over to Alison with determination in his eyes. She started screaming in horror.

"Whoa, whoa! Dean, don't!" Sam shouted, not wanting his brother to have the blood of a human being on his hands.

"I'm not going to kill her," Dean said in a trembling voice, "though I wish it was a sorcerer we were dealing with instead of her."

"Why?" Sam asked.

"So I could chop his dick and nuts off," was Dean's response. "Then it would count as something closer to vengeance."

Dean walked up to Alison and said, "Well since there's nothing your magic can do to help me - there's no point in putting this off any longer."

At that he began to cut off huge chunks of Alison's hair. Immediately she caught on. Dean intended to burn her hair, and thus, cripple her powers. She began to beg.

"Please, I won't use them like that again!" she promised. "You can't!" Alison started to beg and plead until her cries bled together into gibberish.

"I don't think I trust you very much. And I'm not running the risk of you doing this to some other guy. You're like an addict - and they can never quit so easily," said Dean, cutting almost all of Alison's hair off. He tossed it into the empty chalice, threw in a bit of the parchment on the altar and set it alight. Alison began to scream as if she herself were set on fire.

"You goddamned melodramatic bitch," Dean grumbled.

However when Sam issued a shout, Dean turned around.

"She's...ageing, Dean!"

And sure enough, when Dean looked at the woman in the chair, she was no longer young and beautiful. Sitting before them was an ancient crone, emaciated and wrinkled with the passage of many winters. Even her clothes seemed to have aged along with her.

"Holy shit," came Dean's usual oath.

"I guess with her magic crippled, she couldn't hold onto this form any longer," Sam offered by way of explanation. The two brothers looked at the now withered old husk. Her eyes were no longer bright, and she seemed to be lacking any sort of cognitive ability.

"You think she's senile, Sam?" asked Dean.

"Now that her age has caught up to her - quite possibly."

They decided that they'd have to leave an anonymous call to emergency health services. They'd come find her and probably put her in a home for treatment and care.

"We'll have to carry her upstairs, Dean," Sam said, twisting his face. He didn't want to have people finding the occult artifacts. Dean merely nodded, though he too was disgusted at the thought of touching the creature.

"First thing's first, we take her spell books and shit," Dean said. "They might have information we could use."

"Shit."

"What, Sam?"

"They'll probably come back to investigate the house. To look for links to finding her family and stuff. My guess is they're long dead...but then they'd find the stuff in the house when they search," Sam explained.

"Well...then we'll carry her in to a hospital ourselves. We'll say we found her on the streets or something. She sure looks like it. And I say we burn this house down. That way we get rid of alla the artifacts. So no one find 'em and messes around with 'em."

It made logical sense. And since the house was secluded, with no other buildings in sight, the threat of fire endangering life would be practically non-existent.

"It bites ass having her in our car though," Dean said bitterly.

Sam knew he didn't mean having someone so aged and repulsive in the Impala. Rather it was having the person who had done him wrong in his most prized possession.

Sam nodded at Dean's suggestion, and both brothers went to work gathering the ex-witch's belongings...

* * *

"Dean?"

"Mhmm?"

"I think maybe we should call Dad tomorrow," Sam proposed.

It was well past five in the morning. And even after the stressful day and night they'd both had, neither Sam nor Dean managed to fall asleep. Not after the revelation that Alison Greer had made - that she, who had done the deed, was ignorant of the means to reverse the effects.

Dean had yet to reply to Sam's suggestion.

"I think we tried it our way. And it didn't work out. You said if we couldn't solve - " Sam said before he was cut off.

"Yeah, yeah. I know."

"So is that a yes?" Sam asked, wanted to have it stated in unambiguous terms.

"We'll call him first thing tomorrow morning. IF he even takes us seriously."

Sam sat up in his bed. He, more so than Dean, knew that their father could be a bit callous at times. But the man always came through for them when he felt it counted. And finding out what his son was going through...well, Sam had a feeling that John Winchester would consider it to be of enough significance to warrant his attention.

"Of course he will," Sam said. He _was_ a little worried though.

Back in college, Sam had studied gender issues. And there were cases where women, who had been BORN women, looked like women and thought like them, found out later in life that they were in fact genetic males (with no ovaries or uterus and a blind ending vaginal canal) and had to undergo serious psychotherapy.

Their father, whilst Sam didn't think he'd be callous, always seemed to have a problem with feelings and comforting others. A problem that Dean himself seemed to have inherited. Sam hoped that Dean wouldn't be too scarred psychologically - especially considering the sudden and involuntary nature of such a change as he had undergone.

"Dean, if you ever feel like you need to talk..."

"Nah, you know me and where I stand on talking shit out," Dean replied.

"But you're going through this and I don't want you to feel like you're facing it alone. So I'm here if you need to talk."

Dean laughed a bit dryly.

"What's so _funny_?"

"Well," Dean started, "you dealt with being gay all those years all on your own. And you never tried to talk to ME about it. And here you are telling me -"

Sam quickly interrupted, "That was different."

"It's ALWAYS different with you. How come _you_ never talked to _me_ about that? You want to be there for me - I get that. But why did you never let me be there for you?"

Sam didn't respond immediately. In retrospect, it was a foolish decision on his part to assume that Dean would freak out on him if he found out. But when you're scared and have something dear to lose, you don't think right.

"It's just that - I always knew that Dad would most likely have a problem with it. And then you, and your 'Dad can do no wrong' complex..."

"What?" Dean asked incredulously. "You thought that if he freaked the hell out, I would too?"

"You're a lot like him, Dean. I was afraid, okay? You were always his _perfect_ son," Sam quietly said. "I've always been the disappointment. He never even trusted me to be able to look out for myself, trying to keep me where the two of you could watch out for pathetic little Sammy."

"I'm a lot like him," Dean admitted, "but I'm NOT him."

"No. And I regret not telling you earlier."

"Me too," Dean said, "walking in on you and Jesse going at it like bunnies on the couch is something I REALLY wish I hadn't seen."

"YOU busted down the door to MY apartment!" Sam protested.

"Only cuz you weren't answering and I got worried."

Sam eyed Dean sarcastically, "It didn't occur to you that I might not have been at home?"

"Well, yeah it DID. But then I heard scrambling around inside and thuds. I thought someone was messing about in your place or something. So I -"

Sam laughed, "Well, the look on your face _was_ priceless."

Dean wickedly replied, "So was the look on yours."

Several moments passed in silence before Dean spoke again, "Let's just not keep the important things secret from now on. Okay?"

This was the closest that Dean ever came to supporting the 'talking it out' ideal. Sam decided that, for his brother's sake, he'd take what he could get.

"As long as it applies to you too, Dean. So if you ever need to talk about something that's bothering you - I'm here to help you get it off your chest," Sam said sympathetically.

"I wish someone would get these boobs off my chest," Dean grumbled.

"We'll find a way, Dean. Dad will know what to do," Sam stated with confidence, hoping all the while that his words were not hollow.

"Yeah. He will. 'Night, Sammy."

"It's Sam," the younger Winchester grumbled. With their minds at a relative ease for the time being, both Sam and Dean were finally able to drift off to sleep...

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Hell Hath No Fury  
Chapter Three**

_**Part One**_

The constant pacing, back and forth, in the small motel room was beginning to grate on Sam's nerves. It was a habit of Dean to wear tracks in the floor when he was under serious stress. And back then Sam did his best to ignore the unceasing, annoying, motion. But now, well, things were different. For one thing, Dean's long blonde hair swung with each turn he made, and added to the overall distracting and irritating movement of his pacing.

"Would you stop it with the pacing?" Sam asked of his brother, trying not to let any vexation escape into his tone of voice.

"Sorry."

Dean stopped suddenly (and rather awkwardly in mid-sashay) and sat down on his bed with a sigh.

"I told you he wouldn't call us back if all you said was, _we really need to talk to you, it's urgent_," Dean said. "I mean, since when have we gone on a hunt that _wasn't_ urgent?"

_Aside from this last would-be vampire hunt that is_, Sam thought. It was a credit to Dean's character that he didn't mention that failed attempt of Sam's at finding some prey.

"Well, somehow I didn't think telling him the details in a voicemail would have been the best way to go about it," Sam stated, as a matter-of-factly.

Dean knew that their father had somehow gotten it into his head that staying away from them was for their own good. John Winchester had made a lot of enemies in the demonic underworld over the years. And they would never stop hunting him, even as he hunted down their kind.

John didn't want his boys to be in even more danger, so he basically exiled himself, and left them to deal with the small fry while he tracked the big baddies. Including the one that had killed their mother. All of that Dean understood (though he didn't agree with it). Still, would a decent phone conversation or a goddamned text every now and then endanger them significantly?

Only months ago, Dean had been worried that his father had been injured or worse on a hunt. He'd mysteriously vanished off the radar for weeks. Dean had fetched Sam from college who, despite his heated promise to never have anything to do with hunting, still dropped everything and lent his efforts to finding their father.

They'd been searching for two months. Until, after the countless voicemails and text messages they sent, John FINALLY called his sons. _I am safe_, he said. And they weren't to keep looking for him. He was _close on the heels of their mother's murderer_ and didn't want to risk the demon taking his sons in addition to his wife.

As if Dean and Sam wanted to risk IT taking their father in addition to their mother. So of course they still kept up the search for John, hunting whatever vessels of evil they stumbled upon on the way. The hardheaded old man might just need their help and be too stubborn or afraid (for their safety) to ask for it. It was their plan to take down their mother's killer together. John wasn't the only one who'd lost her. So, in Dean's reasoning, he wasn't the only one deserving of a little payback...

"One call was all he ever gave us," Dean griped, "he made one call and not so much as a text afterwards."

Sam looked at his brother oddly, a little surprised at the slight hint of reproach in his tone. Dean ordinarily held their father up as a nicely polished idol, on a marble pedestal, in the halls of his esteem.

"We could have called him at a bad time," Sam offered.

They had called him at around ten earlier that day. They'd said that something urgent had come up. And if it were at all possible, could he please call them back. They needed to speak with him _live_. Sam didn't want to explain it over a voicemail. And since their father would more likely than not decline turning up in person - a live conversation was the best that they could hope for.

Sam told him where they were staying anyway. Just in case he couldn't be _bothered_ with them and _their_ idea of urgency, and knew of someone in the area he trusted. Someone to take care of whatever their problem was. In addition to enemies, John Winchester had made quite a few friends over the years.

Four hours had passed since Sam had left the message...

"Bad time, maybe. Unless he threw away the damn phone, or changed the number," Dean said bitterly, "to discourage us from searching."

Sam didn't immediately know what to say to that. Because if John had done either of those two things, contacting him would be nigh impossible. It's not like he was into email or instant messaging or anything of the sort. Despite his initial misgivings about contacting their father, Sam could see that Dean needed his help more than he was willing to admit, maybe even to himself.

"He wouldn't throw away the phone," Sam said, trying to cheer Dean up. "You know that he doesn't throw away _anything_ as long as it still has the _least_ bit of functionality."

"Huh?"

"As long as it still works well enough to suit him," Sam restated.

"Hey, you're right," Dean replied. "You should have seen his underwear, dude. Every time I did the laundry, I wondered if they'd survive the wash."

"Right." Sam added wickedly, "You got that trait from him I figure."

"I do NOT have underwear that's ratty like that," Dean protested with a flash of his old spirit.

"No, maybe not," Sam said. "But you DO cling to the Impala."

Dean looked at him as if he'd uttered the worst blasphemy possible. "She's a classic!"

"No, bro. She's OLD." Sam chuckled at Dean's raised eyebrow and shocked expression, before adding, "And Dad wouldn't change his number cuz..." he trailed off as he couldn't think of a suitably plausible reason. Thankfully, the joke about the underwear had restored Dean somewhat. He offered a half-assed explanation of his own.

"He's not the number changing type. He's been playing the exact same numbers in the lottery for over ten years," Dean said. "And we both know he's a stubborn old fool. He'll never change his ways."

"Exactly," said Sam, with a grin.

Dean sighed and got off the bed. Then he proceeded to walk once more.

"Don't tell me you're going to start up that pacing again," Sam complained. "If you _have_ to sashay back and forth like that, you may as well become a runway model."

"Don't hate me cuz I'm beautiful, Sammy," Dean grumbled, swiping Sam over the head for the remark. "Now come on. Let's go get something to eat. I'm not starving myself, sitting around, waiting for him to call."

Despite the serious circumstances, Sam couldn't help but think to himself how much Dean sounded like a teenaged girl, waiting for a boy to phone her. The tone was quite whiny. He chuckled a little to himself. The unbidden thought was a bit surprising to him. Dean was always the one who went for dumb humor in the middle of a crisis. _He must be rubbing off on me_, Sam thought.

"Right on. I'm hungry. I saw a pizza joint 'bout ten minutes drive from here."

Dean smiled weakly, trying to turn on the humor that helped him cope, "Hell no. No greasy, cheese smothered pizza for me. I'm watching my figure."

Sam did his best to return the smile. Dean needed it. Without griping about the situation anymore, for the time being, they exited the motel room...

* * *

It was after nightfall when Sam and Dean drove into the motel's car park. They'd stopped off at a burger place and had what passed for a meal. And then, hunger appeased, Dean had an idea. While they were out, they might as well make some money, he said. His new, feminine, form offered a prime opportunity to rake in some dough.

"See," Dean said in an arrogant tone, "we made close to five hundred in just a couple hours. I didn't even break a sweat. Almost the easiest money I ever made."

Sam was forced to admit that Dean's plan to win money by hustling pool games was crafty. Most of the men in the pool house severely underestimated the skills of the pretty blonde girl with the confident boasts. To their detriment and monetary loss. Sam didn't doubt that some of them were too distracted to focus on their game, as the glances they shot at Dean when he bent over to shoot attested to.

"Okay, you had a good idea," Sam admitted.

"You shouldn't have made that pimp comment."

"Hey, it was a joke," Sam said defensively. "You were saying that you, _just had an idea how we can make some money. Now that I'm a girl, it'll be a cinch_. You were asking for a comment like that."

"I was staring across the street at a pool house when I said it. Or were you so far down in the gutter that you didn't see me doing that?"

"Okay then," Sam conceded. "Would you have preferred I made a comment about you working sticks and balls?"

Dean chuckled a little. Not as heartily as Sam would have liked to hear him laugh, but at least he wasn't as down in the dumps as before. Sam parked the Impala flawlessly, a point that he didn't fail to draw Dean's attention to, and they both exited the vehicle and started on the walk towards their room.

"I guess we're going to have to deal with this thing on our own, huh?" Dean said evenly.

They had yet to receive either a call or a text message from their father.

"And what else is new?" Sam said, more than a little angry with John. Being ignored by their father constantly was starting to get old. Dean didn't say anything in response to that statement, and the two continued walking. Presently, as they were passing by the booth that housed the motel keeper, the old man sitting inside called out to Sam.

"Hey! Hey, you with the shaggy hair!"

Sam stopped walking and turned in the old man's direction. He beckoned with his hands a little impatiently, dissatisfied with the slow pace at which Sam was approaching.

"We paid up front for - " Sam began.

"It ain't about the room, kid," said the man in the booth. "A guy dropped by here earlier. He was asking 'bout you."

Sam's ears perked up at that. He looked past his shoulder to where Dean was standing in wait. Could it be their father? Could John have actually turned up?

"Can you describe the guy?" Sam asked.

The old man rubbed his chin and trailed off. "Mid to late forties. About six foot, two inches or so. Salt and pepper hair. Um...he was really butch..."

As the man continued, Sam's hopes were raised considerably. But he was still a bit unwilling to accept that it could have been John Winchester...just in case his hopes were cruelly dashed.

"He just came up here and was scouting the place out," the old timer explained, "especially the car park. Then he asks me if two guys matching you and your bro - say where is your brother anyway?"

Sam didn't know what to say to that. But he didn't have to worry. The dirty old man just took a look at Dean standing impatiently in the background and came to his own conclusion.

"Oh, ditched him to have some fun with your girlfriend, eh?" the motel keeper grinned lewdly.

Sam scoffed and replied, "you were saying?"

"Oh right. Yeah so he asks about two guys that matched you and your brother's description. Even mentioned your car."

"And what did you tell him?" Sam asked.

"Well, I didn't know if it would be right to tell him anything about your whereabouts. I mean that's your business."

There was an awkward pause then as the old man scrutinized Sam for a few long seconds. Finally he asked, "You two ain't runnin' from some mob or something are ya?"

Sam rolled his eyes and said that they weren't.

"What about the law? Cuz I don't want no trouble."

The old man began to wonder out loud whether Sam and Dean had stolen someone's car and that the owner, or the police were on their trail. Harboring fugitives from justice was an offense...

"We aren't running and we aren't crooks! Look, if you must know - I think the man you met musta been our father."

In retrospect, Sam realized that it wasn't a smart thing to reveal that. Especially since John had a thing about keeping his whereabouts unknown...staying off of the radar. But that bit the old man said about harboring fugitives from justice made Sam nervous and he blurted it out. It just wouldn't do for the old man to call up the police...the boys had a history of credit card scams and impersonations behind them.

"Oh. Your father, huh? I dunno if I see any resemblance - "

"Look - uh - did he say anything or..."

The old man replied, "he said he'd be back here first thing tomorrow morning."

Sam grew confused. "I thought you didn't tell him anything about us. That you felt our whereabouts were our business. If you didn't then why would he come back here? He wouldn't know we were here."

Of course Sam had told his father in the phone message where they were staying. But assuming the man who came calling was not John Winchester, Sam needed to ascertain what and how much the old motel keeper had really let slip.

"Sure did. Told him I ain't ever seen you before. I didn't say he believed me. The man saw right through me."

"Well thanks for the message, sir."

"Sure thing, kid. And remember - keep your head on and play safe," the old man responded whilst glancing in Dean's direction.

Rolling his eyes, Sam walked off towards Dean. That dirty old man...

* * *

John Winchester stood at the door of Room 158. Logic told him that his sons were inside. After scoping out the place the day before and gathering some information from the old motel keeper, it would seem that this was the place where Sam said they were staying after all. Still, regardless of that, his hunter's instinct demanded he be very cautious. Logic wasn't what had kept him and his boys alive all those years. The illogical occurring was a part of his job. Needless to say, John wasn't going to be entering through the front door.

It was night time. Somewhere past two in the morning. The perfect time to sneak in under cover of darkness without the prying eyes of the other motel guests interfering. John had told the motel keeper that he'd be back in the morning as a precaution. Just in case someone or something was holding his sons prisoner and forced Sam to make that panicky sounding call. If someone was holding his sons, John would have the advantage of the element of surprise.

After skulking around a bit in the dark, John found a window. He smiled as he saw the line of salt on the inside sill. At least they weren't being careless. The window was locked, but John had brought all of the right tools. With nary a sound, he drew the window up and entered the dark room. Scarcely had he done so that he heard the familiar sound of a gun being cocked.

"Shit," John muttered holding his hands up.

The next second, someone flicked on the lights.

"Turn around slowly and remove the mask," said a voice John hadn't heard in person in a long while.

John complied and saw his younger son holding a gun, aimed directly at his chest. Still, the hunter in him was not immediately relieved. He began removing the mask and immediately muttered, "christo". To his relief, Sam didn't flinch and his eye color didn't alter. Two seconds later the mask came off in its entirety.

"Dad!"

"Sammy. God, it's good to see you kid."

After a quick embrace, they got down to business.

"W-what are you doing sneaking in?! We guessed it was you who came around earlier but we were expecting you in the morning."

"Well, I just wanted to make sure that you weren't being held against your will, son."

Sam sighed. "You're lucky Dean wasn't the one on lookout. He's usually _shoot first_ at the best of times. And now isn't exactly the best of..."

Satisfied that they were safe for the time being, John's immediate concerns were drawn to his first son.

"Sam, what was so important? Why did you need to see me so bad? Is it - is it Dean?"

Sam looked towards the bed on the other side of the room. It was obscured from vision by a screen. John began walking towards the bed but was promptly held back by Sam.

"Dad..."

"What? Is he hurt? Is that it?"

Sam didn't know quite how to explain it. Dean wasn't hurt exactly - not physically anyway.

"Not hurt in the physical sense," Sam tried explaining to his worried father.

"Oh no," John mumbled, "is he...possessed?"

"No! No! He's not hurt in the spiritual sense either."

Sam wished his father hadn't suddenly appeared during the night. Yes, it was good to see him alive and in the flesh. But Sam had been looking forward to the extra time. Time to figure out how he was going to tell his father that he had lost a son and gained a daughter. Sam was naturally concerned about the shock his father would have upon hearing the news. But more so, he didn't want Dean to see that shock, misconstrue it and be devastated. Dean had been really worried about John thinking of him differently.

"God damn it, Sam! Let me go. If you can't tell me what's wrong, I gotta see Dean for myself."

Sam gripped his father's arm a little too tightly and fiercely whispered, "no!" a little too loudly. It awakened and drew the attention of Dean.

"Sam? Is everything okay?" came the sound of a female voice from the opposite side of the room.

Both Sam and John froze. Sam's facial expression reeked of nervousness and John looked a bit confused.

"Who was that? You got a girl with you?" John asked.

"Yeah. That would be a...girl."

"Would this have something to do with a case you're working on? Is she someone you're trying to help?"

"She definitely needs help. And...she's the reason I called."

"Sam? Answer me when I'm talkin' to you, butt wipe!" came Dean's voice from behind the screen.

Sam froze.

John snickered, "She has quite a mouth on her. A feisty one. I like her. It's so refreshing to meet someone who's not the typical damsel in distress, scared shitless when faced with the truth."

John had no idea how quickly he himself was about to be faced with the truth. After hearing Sam anxiously whispering "no!", and then not responding to his questioning, Dean decided to get out of bed and see what the matter was. Upon emerging from behind the screen, the first thing his eyes beheld was his father.

"Oh thank God you're here!" Dean cried out, giving way to his pent up emotions, tossing aside his insecurities and fears for the moment.

John however was not prepared for the sight of a girl who was the spitting image of his late wife in her younger days.

"H-holy Mary..." was all John managed to get out before he slumped to the floor unconscious.

"Dad!"

"It's okay, Dean. He just...fainted." Sam explained. "Scared...or more like SHOCKED shitless."

"Here, help me get him to the bed, Sam."

The two of them took John to Sam's bed and elevated his legs with pillows.

"Dean, I think maybe you should go behind the screen again. Somehow I don't think you should be the first person he sees when he wakes up."

Dean got up with a sullen look on his face. It was just what Sam was afraid of.

"Dean, he was shocked. That's all. You really do look a lot like mom."

"Yeah. Yeah, you're right," Dean said unconvincingly whilst walking behind the screen...

* * *

John groaned as he slowly drifted back into consciousness. The first thing he made out was the blurred image of Sam. Rapidly blinking, John sat up and immediately began firing questions at his youngest.

"Mary - "

"She's not mom." Sam explained. "I really don't know how to say this. And I guess there's really no way to prepare you for it."

"Just lay it on me, son. I don't know if I can handle any more of this suspense."

Sam crossed his fingers, took a deep breath and began the telling of his tale...

"D-Dean?!" John exclaimed.

"Yeah, dad?" came Dean's voice from behind the screen, thinking John was calling him.

John got to his feet and slowly began walking towards the area behind the screen. Both Dean and John averted their gazes, taking care to avoid direct eye contact. John was freaked out to be confronted with the image of Mary, and Dean didn't want to risk seeing his father's expression in case it was unfavorable.

"How you holdin' up?" John asked.

"I'm hangin' in there."

"So..." John trailed off, finally working up the nerve the look at Dean more closely. He noticed Dean's downcast eyes and somber expression. As a father, John knew he hadn't been perfect - as one of his sons often attested to. But even he could tell that he had to say and/or do something to set his firstborn at ease. Especially when his firstborn lived for his approval. Problem was, John didn't know what to say or how to say it.

"Dad, do you know how to fix this?" Dean quietly asked.

"Well, I am gonna be honest with you, Dean. I haven't come across something like this before."

Dean stopped staring at the ground and looked at his father with sheer desperation in his eyes.

"But, there has to be some way to fix this!"

Sam walked over and stood next to John, nudging him by way of telling him to say something.

"Son," John began, "let's just calm down a little bit -"

"Calm down? **You're** telling **me** to calm down? You didn't look so calm when you all out fainted just now!" Dean ranted.

"Dean, you have to understand," John began, "I wasn't in my wildest dreams expecting something like this. I thought you two could have been held against your will, and then I thought you were possessed or hurt or...worse."

"Possessed? I **wish** I was possessed. There's a cure for that at least," Dean sulked.

Sam looked at his father sharply and nudged him once more.

John took the hint. "Don't say that, son. I'm just glad you're safe and unhurt."

Dean looked at his father with hope in his eyes. _He's takin' this pretty good_, he thought to himself.

"And I mean," John continued, "it could be so much worse. Things aren't as bad as they seem. You're alive...and you're - "

John struggled for something nice to say to complete his sentence. " - you're a beautiful...uh, I mean healthy and...and safe and..."

Before things could get any worse, Sam made a mental note to talk to John privately and decided to interject. "Dad, we were wondering if you knew of any occult practitioners who might be able to help us. We checked your journal and -"

John grew thoughtful and distant for a few moments. Then he looked at his sons, especially Dean, solemnly.

"I...know someone. I'm not saying for certain that she'll be able to reverse this. But she's real damn good at what she does."

Dean grew hopeful once more. Sam was relieved to see his spirits rising again. John's look was a bit troubling though.

"What's the matter, dad?" Sam asked.

"It's just - she's based back in Lawrence."

Lawrence, Kansas. Their old home town. The place where it all began, where Dean swore he'd never return...

"Well," Dean said softly, "I guess we're going home."

* * *

_Dean,_

_Sorry to leave you boys like this. But it's for the best. If I stay any longer it might put you in danger. I left some information in another note in the journal. Follow the directions and you'll find the person I was talking about. She'll do her best to help you boys out._

_I don't want to scare you. But you have to be realistic. This isn't a spell effect caused by defined magical rules, so it won't be possible to reverse this by simply working backwards. It could take some time._

_And we need to face facts. There's the possibility that this could be more permanent than you'd like to think. I know this change is tough on you. And you have enough to worry about without thinking I'd change my opinion of you. I just want you to know, it doesn't matter to me if I have a son or a daughter - as long as I have you. Whatever body you're in, you're still my Dean. I've done lost enough, and I'm not about to lose you to this._

_Anyhow, keep me updated on how things shape up. Somehow the words didn't come out right when I wrote this. I'm no good with this sentimental stuff, but I hope you catch my drift. You and Sammy watch out for each other._

_Your father,  
JW_

* * *

"The son of a bitch!" Dean swore angrily (disguising how touched he was at his father's uncharacteristic show of emotion) and tossed John's note aside.

After their meeting with John the night before, he'd suggested that they all get some sleep. Upon waking up the following morning, Dean had discovered that their father had taken off without a trace. No doubt he was fresh on the trail of their mother's killer once more, leaving his sons to deal with their current issue on their own.

"Well, he did leave us some useful information before he left. And besides, finding and stopping that thing is a lot more important than this," Sam said. "I mean, it could be killing people to this day."

Dean didn't disagree with that statement, but replied, "I just wish he didn't vanish like that without sayin' goodbye at least."

"Well, you forget that he doesn't want us - or anyone else - following him. Musta decided not to take any chances and left under cover of darkness."

Dean grumbled, bit into his bagel and inspected the roadmap before him. He was looking for the shortest possible route that would take them to Lawrence. Sam was busy reading up the directions that John had left.

"So what's this lady's name again?" Dean asked, mouth half full.

"Um...Missouri. Missouri Moseley."

"Okay, and she's a what? A witch?"

"According to dad's note, she's a psychic apparently. But she also knows a lot about magic. Ex hunter - or huntress...whatever."

"Well, I can see us reaching Lawrence in about three days."

"Good," Sam said. "Well finish your breakfast. We have some stuff to get done before we leave town."

Dean looked at him confused. "What?"

Sam smiled, "Shopping of course. We need to get you some more clothes. Looks like you'll be needing them."

Dean gave his brother a dark look. "No more nabbing things from clotheslines!"

"Hey, I said _shopping_. This time I'll take you to a store and you'll do the picking."

"Sounds like a plan. I need some more pairs of jeans."

"Of course," Sam continued, "as long as it isn't anything tacky or with bad color coordination and such."

"Why the heck should stuff like that matter?" Dean asked with raised eyebrows.

"Because," Sam explained, "things have changed."

"You're tellin' me."

"I mean, you're gonna be expected to look and act like a girl for an extended period of time now. You're gonna need to recondition your way of life so that you don't slip up and arouse suspicion...or have people thinking you're crazy."

"And what does this have to do with fashion?"

"Simple. Girls know how to dress and look good. Appearance counts a lot with them." Sam said.

"Apparently, they aren't the only ones it counts a lot for," said Dean, smirking wickedly at Sam.

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"You primp a lot," stated Dean.

"I do not."

"You take forever in the bathroom, shampooing and conditioning your hair. And even longer in front of the mirror."

"It's called basic grooming, Dean," Sam stated flatly.

"What beats me is why it still looks like a bird's nest after alla the time and attention you spend on it."

"It does not!" Sam exclaimed, absently fingering a few strands of his hair. "It's a look."

"Yeah. A bad one. And speakin' of looks - you ever seen some of the looks people throw you when they see you out in public with frowsy hair like that?"

"Well, since you're such an expert, when we get back from shopping, you can give me some pointers and we can do each other's hair. You finally have enough of it worth grooming. I'm thinking braids - Heidi style. Now come on - time's a wastin'."

"Bitch."

"Look who's talkin'," Sam said with relish...

_**

* * *

**_

_**Part Two**_

"Damn. It looks pretty good," Dean mused as he and Sam took in the sight of their old house. The fire that took place over twenty years earlier hadn't burn it right down to the ground. But it was a damned near thing. Someone had done a very good job at renovating and rebuilding. It stood once more almost just as Dean pictured it from his blurry memories.

"Yeah it looks nice." Sam said, adding quietly, "Seems like a nice town. We might have had a good life if it weren't for..."

"Yeah well, past is past. Get that address and let's head over to Missouri's."

Sam nodded and within fifteen minutes they were parked outside an average sized house in a nicer part of town. Complete with white picket fence, the sight of which made Dean groan - he had a thing against the entire white picket fence dream and its association with "normal".

"And she's an ex hunter?" Dean asked.

"Yep. She does readings and stuff now."

"Well, no point in delaying this. Come on."

They walked up to the front door. There was a doorbell so Sam rang...and rang...and rang. There was no immediate response.

"Maybe she's not at home?" Dean suggested.

Sam shrugged. "One more time."

Just about then the door opened and a middle aged woman with graying blonde hair stepped out. She looked visibly disturbed and it was pretty obvious that she had been crying.

Sam turned on the sensitivity. "Ma'am, are you okay?"

"Does it bloody look like I'm okay?!" the woman irately replied.

From within the house a male voice could be heard, "Doreen, wait!"

That answered Sam and Dean's unasked question - the woman before them was not Missouri Moseley. Which was a good thing, for she didn't look in the mood to help anybody. Presently a middle aged man appeared outside and he and Doreen started getting into it, not caring that they were airing their dirty laundry in front of two strangers.

"Harold, you swore to me that it was over!" Doreen spat with all the venom of a woman who has been wronged.

"Doreen, baby, he means nothing to me. You're the only one I love," Harold defended, or rather **tried** to defend himself.

"He?!" Dean gasped.

"Yes, HE!" Doreen responded. "You watch out for them, honey. And pick 'em good. You look like a nice girl. Don't let anyone take advantage of you!"

Doreen's bitchy gaze turned to Sam (who bore a "who me?" look on his face).

"Men, they're all the same. I'm going to go settle with that home wrecker!" Doreen stated before storming off.

Sam and Dean watched on as Harold chased Doreen down the street, protesting his love all the way.

"If you ask me, the real home wrecker here is this Missouri woman," Dean stated.

Sam stared at Dean incredulously.

"Dean, that man was cheating on her," Sam stated coolly.

"We don't know that. What if he really gave up...that guy, and Missouri and Doreen wrongly accused him? I hope she's a genuine psychic. THIS is the use she puts her **gifts** to?"

"Well, dad seems to have a lotta faith in her," Sam remarked.

"Hmmm, someone's coming."

A sweet southern voice echoed from within the house. "I swear I don't know how to help those two. That Harold has been playin' them both like a violin."

"Well at least she sounds like a nice person," Dean said.

Presently a new woman, African American, appeared in the doorway. She could have been in her late thirties or early forties, they could not tell. She was about Dean's height, with short, tied back hair and dark skinned. Upon seeing the two young people standing at her doorway, she greeted them with a bright smile.

"Uh, Miss Moseley?" Sam asked.

"Why yes, honey. And you are?" Missouri asked.

"If you're a psychic, shouldn't you be able to tell?" Dean asked a little dubiously.

"Dude..." Sam trailed off, while trying to think of a way to remedy Dean's comment. Missouri didn't look too pleased.

"Well yes, I do suppose I could enter your mind without permission and just steal the information unbidden," Missouri said a little coolly.

"I'm sorry, Miss Moseley. Uh - she..." Sam paused when Dean frowned at his use of the pronoun "she".

"It's alright, sugar. I can sense that she's not quite the sharpest tool in the shed. Now what can I do for you?"

"I'm Sam. And this is -"

"Sam?! Honey is that really you?! My, how tall you've grown!" Missouri beamed.

"You - you know me?!" Sam asked, stunned.

She ignored the question for the time being and looked closely at Dean.

"And you must be Dean then? Sam and Dean Winchester?" Missouri asked.

"Uh - yeah." Dean simply stated.

"Child, your daddy called me a couple days ago. Explained to me your problem. Come on inside and let's sit a spell," Missouri warmly offered and led them into her home. She sat them down in her living room and ran off to the kitchen for some milk and cookies. Despite Sam and Dean's objections, she would not have anyone accusing her of lacking hospitality.

"Dean, she knows us," Sam said.

"Maybe she was a friend of our parents." Dean offered.

Sam pondered a bit. "I dunno. I don't think she knew mom. Or she'd have **definitely** seen your resemblance to her."

"Got a point there."

"I hope you boys like triple chocolate chunk cookies," Missouri said as she came back in with a laden tray. "Two much is never enough."

She hadn't put the tray down good before Dean had grabbed three cookies and started stuffing himself. With his mouth full for the time being, the conversation fell to Sam and Missouri.

"Miss Moseley -"

"Please, call me Missouri."

Sam smiled. He had taken an instant liking to her.

"Um, how do you know us?"

"Well," Missouri began, "I met you boys quite a few times. Your father first came to me a short while after the...after the fire. He was scared and confused. He came for a reading. I guess you could say I drew back the curtains for him and told him what was really out there in the dark."

Dean stopped chewing and gulped, thus evacuating his oral cavity and freeing it up for speech. "You mean, you're the one who's responsible for him takin' up huntin'?"

"In a way, I guess you could say that. I showed him the truth. He made the choice on how to best deal with that truth," Missouri stated evenly. "That's all I can do - inform people about what's really going on. The final decision is theirs."

"Do you know," Dean paused in anticipation, "what killed our mother?"

"No, child," Missouri sadly replied. "I didn't see anything when I visited the house. All I could sense was the psychic echoes of a seriously evil entity long gone. Just a really bad feeling. You know what I mean? Well, Sam knows I'm sure."

"Huh? W-why do you say that?" Sam asked.

"I can sense that you and I have a little something in common," said Missouri as she eyed him. "You do have visions don't you?"

"Whoa, you really are the real deal!" Dean exclaimed.

"As if there should have been any doubt in the first place. Now let's get back to the present for a bit. With this problem of yours..."

"Did dad explain it to you?" Sam asked. "Or should we go through it?"

"He explained it," Missouri said, "but this is unlike anything I've ever seen or heard of. It may take a while to figure something out. How long are you boys planning on stayin' in town?"

Sam and Dean looked at each other. Then Dean responded, "as long as it takes."

"Do you have someplace to stay?"

"Um, we could just lay up at a motel," Sam suggested.

"Oh I'll have none of that. This is a big enough house and I have an extra room free. You can stay here," Missouri kindly offered.

"We really don't want to impose - " Sam began.

"Honey, it is no imposition," Missouri said, dismissing the statement as absurd. "Besides, here I can keep a close eye on you boys. Your daddy told me to take good care of you."

"He did?" Dean asked, touched by John's concern.

"Yes. This town has...changed a lot. You have been gone such a long time," Missouri seriously replied.

"Changed?"

"Oh yes. Lawrence has always been something of a spiritual nexus. And that tends to attract the supernatural. But over the years, things have taken a turn for the worse."

Sam grew grave. "Over the years? You mean like...after the thing that killed mom made it's appearance?"

"Yes. I can't help but feel that it set something malevolent in motion," Missouri responded. "Which is why I want you boys here. You'll be safer within these walls than in a motel room. And more comfortable too."

Dean looked the place over.

"I know what you're thinking," Missouri said with a smile.

"Oh?" Dean asked amusedly.

"You're thinking that it looks like an average house. Think again. This house has so much magical protection, it would take the mystical equivalent of an atomic bomb to break 'em. That's more than I can say for salt lines at the doors and windows of a motel room."

Sam glanced at Dean, urging him with his eyes to say yes. It looked as if they'd be in Lawrence for a while. And staying with Missouri would do a lot to help them conserve their financial resources compared to renting a room.

"I guess you just got yourself a couple of houseguests, Missouri," Dean said, agreeing to the idea.

Missouri smiled and her demeanor changed a bit. "Now, we're going to have to come to an understanding."

"Understanding?" Sam asked, confused.

"Yes, sugar," Missouri explained. "Just a couple of rules - more so for your brother's well being than yours. I can sense he needs the type that needs the boundaries clearly defined."

Dean could have slapped himself. Rules were not his best friends and living in the manner he had been living in - they were as good as complete strangers to his way of life.

"First off, treat this house with respect. I know boys will be boys - even transgendered boys I guess - but I don't want to hear any cussin' and lewd comments. Secondly, the room to the back, down the hall to the left - I don't want you boys going in there under any circumstances without me. Understood?"

"Oh yes, ma'am. Of course," Sam humbly said, accepting the terms.

"Child, considering how you were raised - it's a miracle you developed such lovely manners," Missouri said, fawning over Sam and eyeing Dean in a manner that suggested he could stand to learn a few things from him.

"Yeah, yeah. We won't mess around out back," agreed Dean.

"Well, I guess we'll update the rules as and when needed. Any questions?"

"Yeah." Dean said in earnest. "Are meals included?"

Sam looked away embarrassedly.

"Oh yes, sugar. Zachary can throw down in the kitchen," Missouri said with pride. "And so can I. Taught him myself."

Sam smiled enthusiastically. "Who is Zachary?"

"Your husband?" Dean offered.

"Actually -" Missouri began...then she was cut off by a loud shout.

"Hey, Missie! Whose old jalopy is that parked out front?! It's blockin' the driveway!" a youthful male voice could be heard in the near distance.

"That," Missouri smiled, "is Zachary." She positioned her head in an angle meant for distance and shouted a response, "Zachary, honey! Come inside for a bit - we have company!"

"Sure thing, Missie!"

Footsteps could be heard approaching. Sam and Dean looked to the doorway in anticipation. They were not let down. Within thirty seconds, standing before them was what could only be described as an absolute Adonis of a guy. He was at around six feet, not too muscled as to be grotesque, but had a very nice swimmer' build. Semi longish, curly blond hair, striking green eyes, flawless skin and a really nice tan. Sam couldn't wipe the shock from his face - he looked liked someone's wet dream made flesh.

"This is Zachary Sanders," Missouri said, introducing him, "he also stays with me."

"Hiya," Zachary said, with a dazzling smile that made Sam catch his breath.

"Hey," Dean said, a little tightly - Zach HAD called the Impala an old jalopy after all.

"Well, Sam," Missouri continued with a smile, "Say hello. Where are those nice manners of yours?"

Dean smirked wickedly, "Yeah, Sammy. Just **where** are they? Did they fly **south** for the winter or something? Say hello."

"Hello," Sam responded, zombie like.

"You didn't come home last night, Zach," Missouri stated rather than asked.

"Nah, it..." Zach checked himself and looked at the two strangers oddly.

"It's okay. They're hunters," said Missouri, setting Zach at ease.

"It was harder than I thought it would be finding the right bodies to salt and burn," Zach finished.

"You're a hunter too?" Sam asked Zach, finally recovering.

"Yeah, I am. Um...just a question but - does that car out front belong to either of you?"

"Yeah," Dean said in as even voice as he could manage. Zach noticeably blushed.

"Could you move it? I need to get my bike in the garage."

Dean nodded and went outside.

"So," Zach continued, "what brings you guys here? A case you're working on?"

"They're..." Missouri started, "they're here for our assistance and will be staying with us for a while."

"Oh? You and your girlfriend?" Zach asked.

"Girlfriend?! No, no, no. That's my brother, Dean," Sam said, quickly realizing that in his haste to assert his 'available' status he had inadvertently let the cat out of the bag.

"Your SISTER you mean?" Zach asked, obviously confused.

"No, he means BROTHER, Zachary. Dean's been transformed to a girl by an evil witch," Missouri explained.

Zach's eyes widened. "Damn. That has to be the freakiest -"

"Okay! I moved the car!" came Dean's voice in the distance, causing all present inside to jump.

"Well, Sam, Missouri and I will do our best to help return your brother to his true form. I'm looking forward to working with you," Zach cheerfully responded.

"I'm lookin' forward to working you - with, working **with** you too," Sam nervously stuttered.

Missouri looked from one to the other and rolled her eyes. "Okay, Sam. Let's see about getting you and your brother settled in."

* * *

"I hate you!" Sam pouted, as he slammed Dean with a pillow.

Dean responded in kind and mischievously chanted, "Sammy has a boyfriend, Sammy has a boyfriend!"

Sam treated Dean to the darkest look he could muster. He felt he had reason enough to be upset. You see, Missouri's house had three bedrooms. One was hers, one was Zachary's and the third one was free. Missouri's room was utterly hers and hers alone. However, the status of the other two were flexible.

Zach had brought up that since there was now a gender difference, at least physically, between them, that perhaps Sam and Dean shouldn't share a room in common. Especially a room as personal as a bedroom. Sam had agreed with him. After some more talking, it was suggested that Sam could stay in Zach's room and Dean would have the spare room all to himself. It didn't take however, thanks to Dean putting his foot down.

"Look, Sam. You would have been intruding in that guy's personal space," Dean explained.

"Dean, did he looked like he minded it?" Sam countered.

"Actually no, he didn't. Which bothers me. Imagine - you, a stranger comes in and he's only too eager to get you in his bed."

"He was only trying to help," Sam stated. "Brothers and sisters our age shouldn't be sharing personal space like this."

"Brothers and SISTERS?!" Dean growled.

"Hmpf!" Sam fretted.

"There's something about that guy I just don't like, Sam," Dean offered by way of explanation.

"What?"

"I don't know," admitted the elder Winchester. "It's just a feeling. You dig?"

"So you got woman's intuition now?" Sam snidely responded.

SLAP!

"You hit like a girl!" Sam taunted.

SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!

"Okay, that last one actually hurt," Sam mumbled whilst rubbing his left cheek. "Why won't you just let me have a little fun if I can? Weren't you the one who said _you know, Sam. We ARE allowed to have a little fun once in a while._?"

"Well yeah," Dean said, "but not when there's a crisis that needs resolving."

"Uh huh. Dean, where were you when I was being attacked by that vengeful spirit in Tuscany?"

Dean blushed and looked away, remembering then that he had been with a girl that night. "Oh come on, Sam. That wasn't a crisis. I knew you could handle it."

"It was responsible for over five deaths! And it beat the stuffing outta me! Of course it was a crisis! Now you had better not try and sabotage my -"

"Fun should be the last thing on your mind. You should be researching for a way to reverse this," Dean said.

"Researching what?"

"I...don't know. But I don't want you spending all of your time gawking over that guy and neglecting my condition."

"You know, as many one night stands you've had - emphasis on MANY - you should be ashamed of yourself," Sam said, as he headed out of the door. "I may not show it, and may not be a horn dog like you are - but I have needs too."

"Way too much information, dude. Where are you going?"

"Downstairs. I'm gonna go see if Missouri and Zach need any help with dinner."

"You mean," Dean remarked, "that you're gonna go gawk at Zach some more."

"He's like the hottest guy I ever saw," Sam dreamily stated.

"This is worrying. I never saw you react this way to a guy before, Sam."

"That's cuz", Sam sighed, "I ain't ever met a guy like him before. Isn't he hot?"

"No comment."

"Oh you can admit it, Dean. Now that you're a girl."

"I'm a lesbian."

"Sure, sure," said Sam lightly whilst skipping out of the door...

* * *

"Mhmmm, this is the best sweet potato pie I ever had," Sam said appreciatively. "Missouri, how do you do it?"

"Well, I wish I could take credit for the pie, Sam," Missouri smiled knowingly, "but Zach was the one who made it. You'll have to ask him."

Dean rolled his eyes, not for the first time that evening. It was so unlike Sam to resort to cheap flattery. It was so unlike Sam to be virtually throwing himself at someone. That was always more Dean's style. Dean watched as Zach blushed and Sam - what else - smiled. Didn't Sam have the decency to hold off on flirting with that guy until Dean had finished eating.

"So Zach, what kinda spirit were you hunting last night?" Dean asked, hoping to turn the tide of the conversation.

"Oh, it wasn't a spirit," Zach replied to Dean's question.

Dean could sense that Zach was about to say something to his brother, and then Sam would start up that flirtatious banter again. He needed to stall them. "But um, you mentioned salting and burning some bodies."

"Uh yeah. Restless dead. Someone was interested in zombifying them. I had to track down the right graves, purify and destroy the bodies. Took a while. We got a serious plague of evil in this town."

Missouri sighed heavily in agreement.

"Hey, I got an idea," Sam brightly offered, "while me and Dean are here, we can give you guys a hand."

"Hmmm, we do got a shortage of hunters round these parts, eh Missouri?" Zach seemed to be actually considering it.

Dean eyed Sam cuttingly. Never before had his "normal" loving brother shown such enthusiasm about hunting supernatural terrors. Just what was going on with him? He was acting like a love...or maybe **lust** sick puppy.

"Hey, Dean. You still up for hunting?" Zach asked.

"Yeah," Dean stated. "Why not? I mean, I still got skills. You got any cases on your hands?"

"Several." Zach glanced at Missouri before asking, "Are you guys any good?"

"Are we any good?!" Sam asked in melodramatic mock shock, "Tell him, Dean!"

Dean rolled his eyes, but shared some of their exploits with Zach, who whistled appreciatively.

"So you guys are pretty good then? So glad to hear that -"

"Why?" Sam interrupted. "You got a case we could help you with?"

Missouri took a sip of her tea and nodded. "Yes, I suppose so. We call her the Lady of the Lake."

Impressed by the romantic sounding moniker of the spirit, Sam stopped his endless tirade and leaned back, ready to listen. This was to Dean's liking, as Sam's endless chatter was beginning to annoy him. Especially since it was of a barely disguised, sickeningly flirtatious nature.

"Sounds interesting," Dean admitted. "What do you know about the haunting?"

"It's been going on for about three months now, at night. Down at Lake Luna," Zach explained, "I haven't really checked out the place yet cuz there were other...more dangerous things in the works that needed dealing with."

"Has it claimed any lives?" asked Sam earnestly.

"So far there have only been a few near drowning incidents," Missouri explained. "Lake Luna isn't as frequented as it used to be. Thank heavens for that, or no doubt lives would have been lost by now."

"Hardly anyone swims there anymore, and sure as heck not at night. But um..." Zach trailed off and blushed a little. "The lake shore is a different matter, couples go there to make out and stuff."

Missouri took up the story. "And some couples have claimed that they fall asleep on the shore, then wake up to an unnatural tide pulling them in - all the while hearing the screams of a woman."

Dean frowned, "So no one has actually seen the spirit?"

"No," Zach responded. "Here's the strangest part though. I checked the reports, and each night an attack took place, there was a full moon."

"So," Sam considered, "if that's a genuine pattern, then the haunting can only take place three nights out of a month."

"There's been about five near calls so far," Missouri carried on. "Since the couples have all been teenaged, the authorities are dismissing the reports as pranks...hoaxes."

Dean grunted. It was the same with a lot of their cases. The authorities had no clue what was going on right under their noses.

"So you guys up for it?", Zach asked them hopefully, although Dean noticed that his gaze lingered more on Sam. In fact there seemed to be some sort of eye to eye communication passing between them.

"Yeah, we'd be glad to help out. Right, Dean?" Sam cheerfully offered, knowing full well that even if Dean didn't want to, they'd still end up doing it anyway.

Dean surreptitiously gave his brother a dark look and nodded in agreement. And so dinner went on, Sam chatting heartily with Zach all the way...

* * *

Dean awoke to the irritating sensation of direct sunlight on his eyes. He made a mental note to rearrange the position of the bed. Getting up with a groan, Dean wondered to himself if perhaps Sam staying with Zach wouldn't be a good idea after all. Even though the bed they had to share was quite large, he still didn't have as comfortable a night's sleep as he would have liked. Not only did he have to contend with Sam's tossing and turning, but something he ate at dinner the night before didn't seem to have agreed with him. He woke up intermittently during the night to abdominal cramps.

The room was empty. Sam as usual was an early riser. Checking the bedside clock, Dean figured that it was high time to get out of bed. Regardless of how bad his internal plumbing felt, he didn't want to give Missouri the impression that he was the lazy sort. He and Sam would be staying with her, true, but Dean's pride wouldn't allow him to just mooch and freeload. Hence, starting from that very day, he decided to do what he could to earn his keep. So, with a groan, Dean rolled off the bed, took care of morning business and went downstairs.

"Good morning," Dean called out, as he walked through the living room.

"Mornin', Dean," Missouri responded, looking up from the morning paper. "You sleep well last night?"

Dean didn't want her to think that something was wrong with the room or the bed, for fear of insulting her generous hospitality. So he said, "Yeah, a lot better than any motel I ever stayed in."

"Oh, good," Missouri answered with a smile. "Why don't you go have breakfast? You like Belgian waffles?"

As it so happened, Dean loved Belgian waffles. But with his gastrointestinal upsets, he didn't think he had it in him to stomach anything right about then.

"In a bit," Dean replied, sitting down on the couch. "Missouri, uh, I wanna talk to you about something."

"Sure. You boys can talk to me about anything. I'm a good listener. You have to be in the psychic business." Missouri folded the paper and put it aside, giving the elder Winchester her undivided attention. "What's on your mind, hun?"

"Well, it's about Sam and me staying here," Dean began tentatively, then petered out.

"You haven't changed your mind, have you?"

"No, it's just...I don't want to mooch off of you," Dean confessed. "I mean, you don't want any rent. I get that, but-"

"Rent? Of course not. Consider this a favor to your father."

"But can't we help out some other way," said Dean, pressing the issue. "I mean, let's face it. You aren't rich. And you're basically taking in two more mouths to feed. Speaking of which, Sam has a stomach like a bottomless pit."

"So I've noticed," Missouri replied with a chuckle.

"At least let us try to pitch in for food and utilities?" Dean asked.

"This psychic gig I've got running IS gainful employment, you know. But I have a hunch I know what this is really about," Missouri ventured.

Dean looked at her confusedly. "Um, what?"

Missouri took a deep breath and began. "This is really about your deep seated need to assert your inner masculinity, regardless of your outer appearance, during this crisis."

"Oh?"

"Yes," Missouri responded. "Men have traditionally been the breadwinners, the providers. And you staying here, _mooching_ as you called it, is undermining your sense of maleness. You want to provide for this household to reclaim some sense of what it means to be a man."

"Dang, you got me," said Dean, feigning agreement. None of that had even occurred to him. But he had to concede that it did make sense in a psychoanalytical sort of way.

Missouri relented. "Well, if it would make you feel any better, then you can chip in with the food and utilities. How's that?"

"Cool with me."

"Which brings us to another issue," Missouri said thoughtfully, "How are you going to pay for it? I don't want to have you boys dipping into your savings. You're going to need that money."

"It's okay," Dean said with a grin, "we don't have any savings."

"But honey, how are you going to pay for -" Missouri paused. "You boys didn't take after your daddy with them credit card scams, did you?"

Dean blushed and looked away from Missouri's disappointed gaze. "Well Sam didn't..."

"I'll have none of that here. The last thing I need is the po po busting down my door for felons."

"Not to worry," Dean said, trying to put Missouri at ease, "I was thinking maybe I could get a job. Ain't ever had to before cuz we ain't ever stayed in one place long enough."

"Well, that sounds better," Missouri responded, looking relieved. "Of course, you'll have to come up with a new identity."

"Yeah, I know."

"A new name too" Missouri said thoughtfully. "In your line of work, I'm sure you know what needs to be done. Especially after them credit card scams."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, I've done it before. A lot."

"Now about that name," Missouri mused to herself, "How about Dana?"

"I don't like the sound of that."

Missouri tried again. "Diana?"

"Not really feelin' that either," Dean said with a frown.

"Darlene?"

Dean grimaced. Darlene reminded him of _darlin'_, which in turn brought up sappiness to mind. He needed to put a stop to Missouri's suggestions. They seemed to get worse as she worked her way down her list of desirable girls' names. Thankfully, Dean was spared from stopping her himself, as Sam and Zach walked into the living room and plopped down in front of the television.

"Good mornin', Dean" Zach greeted with a wave.

"Hey," Dean responded.

"Boys, get over here, we need your help." Missouri just would not quit.

"With what," Sam asked eagerly, ever willing to lend a helping hand.

"Your brother wants to get a temporary job, and needs a new name and identity," Missouri explained. "But we're having trouble coming up with -"

"Denise? Darla? Desiree? Donna?" Zach rattled off.

"Hold it!" Sam interjected. "Dean is **my** brother, and as nearest of kin, I reserve the naming rights."

"Fair enough," Zach snickered.

With a melodramatically grand gesture over Dean's head, Sam announced, "I hereby christen you, Deanne!"

"Oh God, kill me now," Dean griped.

"It's the feminine form of Dean," Sam stated all-knowingly. "It's the most appropriate name for you."

"I love it!" Missouri exclaimed. "The name Deanne means _Divine_."

"Really?!" Sam asked with a look of shock, "Dean you're a living paradox!"

Dean regarded his brother with a death glare as Missouri, Sam and Zach shared a hearty belly laugh at his expense. This was definitely going to take some getting used to...

_To Be Continued_

* * *


End file.
